Fallen
by cyropi
Summary: What can you do when hatred is tearing your world apart? Can you survive when love is all you have left? And how can you win when you’re fighting your own reflection? DMHG, HPGW.
1. Legends

**Prologue: Legends**

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, objects etc belong to J.K.Rowling, not me. The plot, however, is mine.

**A/N:** I promised to begin uploading this in the New Year, and lo, here it is: Fallen. As it is now, it's planned to be book-length, with the most ambitious plot I've ever attempted – so you're in for a good story, if all goes well! Updates will be every Friday – and anyone wanting to be notified of updates by email, leave your address in your review (because, of course, you're all going to review, aren't you?) And also remember that as this is the prologue, it's shorter than the actual chapters will be. I'm aiming for a similar chapter length to Magnanimous, for those of you who've read that.

I'm dedicating this fic to all my friends, who despite having an insane estimation of my writing abilities and, in some cases, a great desire to embarrass me completely, are the most wonderful friends anyone could wish for. So wonderful, in fact, that no less than seven of them are betaing this fic, and they've each chosen their own Greek letter. So huge amounts of gratitude must go to my Gamma, Delta, Xi, Pi, Sigma, Psi and Omega, for their ability to spot mistakes, their support and opinions, and their relentless and seemingly unstoppable humour. You all rock!

And with that said, onto the story. Enjoy.

~*~

_Many things have fallen only to rise higher. _

**_-Seneca (5 BC - 65 AD)_**

****

~*~

Albus Dumbledore sank into his soft, padded chair and sighed deeply. It had been a long day, he reflected as he polished his glasses with the hem of his robe. Replacing the glasses on his long, rather crooked nose, Dumbledore gazed around his office. All neat, all tidy. The portraits of long dead headmasters were slumbering in their frames. Fawkes was perched in his usual place, displaying every sign of settling down for the night.

Yes, thought Dumbledore. It was time for a mug of sweet tea, a quick glance through the paper – he hadn't been able to read it this morning – and then, bed.

The Daily Prophet lay on his desk among a collection of assorted magical items, still crisp and crackling as he picked it up. For once, there was no mocking Dark Mark splashed across the front page, as there had been so often in the past few weeks. Voldemort's return was out in the open; there was no sense in maintaining secrecy now.

Instead of the Dark Mark, his own picture smiled wisely back at him, giving an amused wink. Also in the picture was Cornelius Fudge, smiling the kind of over-enthusiastic smile of someone who's extremely nervous but wants to make a good impression. Above the image sprawled the headline: Ministry Meetings Start Today: Protecting England From He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

_Why_ they couldn't say Voldemort… it would sound far better in a headline, and avoiding saying his name was simply silly. Names had no power other than that which you gave them, by power of rumour and legend…

But that wasn't the point. He scanned the first few paragraphs – _Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, and Albus Dumbledore, the long-renowned Headmaster of Hogwarts, will chair the Ministry meetings beginning today. The meetings, which will be attended by five hundred of the most prestigious names in the Ministry, are discussing the recent return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and ways in which to protect the wizarding and Muggle worlds from the terrible threat we now face. Officials say…_

The media, he reflected soberly, would never change. 'Long-renowned Headmaster of Hogwarts', he had been described as, when barely a month ago he had been a senile madman. Fickle, that was the way of the media. Always changing to reflect what the officials want the public to think. But so very, very effective…

Fickle. Too fickle, and too effective. Recently, Dumbledore had noticed a worrying trend. It was subtle, certainly, and woven into the articles with such simple ease that no one would notice if their job didn't require an intensive study of the newspaper, if they didn't know enough to pick up the signs. Even glancing at the second article of the paper, he could see it.

_Two Muggleborn wizards, aged 25 and 27, attempted last evening to break in to the home of the __Bennett-Edmonds family, an ancient line that has produced many famous witches and wizards. In the modern day, __Hestia Bennett-Edmonds has achieved a celebrity status in the wizarding world by her generous nature and charitable heart. Only a day before the robbery…_

Unnoticeable, unless you read the signs. But there it was, prominent in the second word of the article, the word that would stick in the subconscious of people. _Muggleborn_. The media – The Daily Prophet, Wizarding Wireless, even Witch Weekly – were all doing it. Every time a Muggleborn broke a law or did something wrong, it was pointed out, always subtly but always in a way that would imprint itself on the subconscious. If a Muggleborn did something good, it went ignored, or their parentage wasn't mentioned, or it was somehow written so that the reader was left with the impression that the person was Pureblood.

And what image of Muggleborns was this presenting people with?

Sighing, Dumbledore flipped through the rest of the paper, reading all the news relating to Voldemort, of which there was far more than he'd have liked. He also did the daily crossword, before folding the paper in half with a noisy crackle and placing it back on the desk.

Leaning back in his chair, his gaze came to rest upon the large window directly opposite his desk. It was a large window, and one which he quite liked; the view over the grounds was spectacular. At this precise moment, he could look out over grass like midnight velvet, the Quidditch stadium like a child's toy to one side, the Forbidden Forest darkening the horizon, and above, the sky, purple-black with diamond stars. It was raining lightly, little silver flashes of reflected light that streaked towards the ground.

Dumbledore levered himself out of his chair and shuffled over to close the crimson curtains, gazing out across the landscape. He wondered, briefly, where Voldemort was now, who would be next to die… and then his attention was diverted.

Something was flying towards the school, aiming directly for his own window, as far as he could tell. His first thought was that it was an owl, but surely it was far too big… and, though he couldn't see properly through the rain, it wasn't the right shape either.

Other people might have kept the window tightly shut, but not Dumbledore. He fiddled with the fastening, fighting with the stiff metal, before finally persuading it to open. The window swung back. Dumbledore's hand went to his pocket, drawing out the wand that he always kept with him, ready for anything. 

The flying thing grew closer, and his eyes widened as he saw what it was, standing back to allow it – him – entry to the room. A winged human… and, Dumbledore realised as the flying figure came closer to the window, not just any human… This was _extraordinary_.

Then the figure was at the window, flying inside it, careful to fold his white-feathered wings inside the frame. His feet hit the carpet softly, and he straightened, his eyes meeting Dumbledore's. 

'Professor Dumbledore,' he said, softly but confidently, in spite of being soaked to the skin and obviously freezing from his flight. He wrapped his wings around himself for warmth. 'I need to talk to you.'

~*~

_Where do legends come from?_

_From human hopes and fears, from our desire and despair, from our own dreams of heroes and heroines, battles and romances. But the best legends, those that are passed down from parent to child and flavoured by a million tongues in the retellings, are those that are founded on a grain of truth._

_And sometimes much, much more than a mere grain…_

_Think back to a time before humanity, when the Earth was an infant among planets, the playground of angels. Even then there were two kinds: the Good and the Evil, as different as fire and ice. Both kinds were physically identical, human-shaped with white feathery wings, although one must not make the mistake of thinking of them as human. For the angels were black and white, emotionless and single-mindedly dedicated to their side, and humanity can only ever be a shade of grey._

_Both kinds had powers: the Good for healing and helping, the Evil for harming and killing. And so the playground became a battlefield, as Good and Evil struggled for domination._

_In all legends, it is Good who wins, and so with this. The Evil ones fell, and the Good retired to a higher place – Heaven and Hell are only two of the thousands of names their current homes are given by mankind._

_But some of the Evil angels did not end up in Hell. Some clung to the edges of Earth, to live on there, to see the advent of true Humanity, who learnt their story and gave the Evil angels a new name: Fallens. The Fallens co-habited with the humans for a while, using them as playthings and toys, and somewhere, somehow, the two species interbred. Not from love, not on the Fallens' part, for love is the antithesis of evil. And from these unions, children were born._

_Do not imagine that these offspring, these half-Fallens, were at all normal. The mix of human and Fallen, grey and black, could not be reconciled and the half-Fallens essentially had two selves, two minds in the same body. The Fallen half was stronger, usually, and the humanity of the children rarely showed itself, although it was not unheard of. Sometimes, there were experiments to divide the two halves and produce a full Fallen and a normal human. Separated, both would die within an hour._

_The half-Fallens had powers: weaker versions of the power of a full Fallen. They had an affinity for what mankind grew to term the Dark Arts, and the ability to change at will between the two forms, between Fallen and human, which helped them to disguise themselves, to pretend themselves to be a part of humanity. The Fallen genes were passed on mainly through wizarding bloodlines, each new generation producing some half-Fallen children._

_And thus it continued, through all the ages of man. The original Fallens had long ago left the Earth, to join the next war between Heaven and Hell, but their bloodlines continued. Many of the most famous Dark wizards were aided by a Fallen gene in their bloodstream, that affinity for the Dark Arts making them powerful. But mankind forgot about them, these children of evil, and none would have guessed that half-Fallens still walked among them._

_Until now._

~*~

**A/N:** Thanks for reading, and don't forget to check back on Fridays for the latest chapters. Also, don't forget to review, because I'm utterly terrified about public opinion. So review. Please?


	2. A Nasty Surprise

**Chapter 1: A Nasty Surprise**

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters, places, objects etc belong to J.K.Rowling, not me. The plot, however, is mine.

**Thanks for 27 reviews goes to: **Storm 079, Rebecca15, lilies-are-awesome, Zek Majiri, meggiebabie81, Lyra Silvertongue2, Flexi Lexi, Saotoshi, Vfoxy713, Amanda, KrystyWroth, Mizu Ki, JoeBob1379, Angst-Rabbit, Pheonix, Jazz baby, Lucy, halosangel, danapotter, Cuppy, PinkTribeChick, willowfairy, Kersten Cheyne, hp1fan, Simpson-Girl, Ashes Kittyhawk, taragoddess!

**A/N:** Wow, thanks for all the great reviews! I got far more than I ever expected, which was wonderful, especially as I'm now right in the middle of the dreaded, the feared, the horrendous GCSE mocks! (For all non-English people: GCSEs are big, scary, evil exams you take at 16. And mocks are like practice exams, based on which they give you a predicted grade. And if you don't get good predicted grades, your parents get mad.)

Mainly because of this fic, I've skimped slightly on revision… i.e. barely done any at all… but that's okay, I appear to be doing fairly well so far. And this time next week, I'll be posting Chapter 2 fresh from the terrifying ordeal of my French oral, the last exam I have to take until around May. Thank goodness.

Anyway, I'm rambling, while I'm sure you're all dying for me to get on with the chapter. So I'll leave you with one word: enjoy.

~*~

_Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares._

**_-Hebrews 13:2_**

~*~

'Ow!'

The pack of Exploding Snap cards had blown up yet again, singing Ron's fingers. He sucked on his fingertips with an irritated expression. 'Why don't we play a less life-threatening game?' he asked mournfully. 'Something like, I don't know, Gobstones with Bubotuber pus?'

'We don't have a full set of Gobstones here.' Hermione pointed out. 'I'd challenge you to another game of wizard's chess, but we've played about five hundred games already.'

'You just don't want to play because I always win.'

'_Nearly_ always win.'

The two friends were passing the time in Hermione's room, as it was the tidier of their rooms. Like most of the other rooms in the headquarters of the Order, it was dark and dingy, the walls decorated in an extreme shade of navy with a rather hideous pattern which left you wanting to gouge your eyes out if you stared at it too long.

Ron had gone straight to the Order after the end of term, with Hermione following a week later after spending some time with her parents. Harry was still at the Dursleys after three long weeks. They spend a good part of every day writing him letters, trying to tell him important things while making it impossible for anyone but Harry to guess. Sometimes, they were sure, this just frustrated him more when their letters were too vague. 

But they were trying, and this time, at least, he got some information through the Muggle news – the Ministry had informed the Muggle Prime Minister almost as soon as they realised that Voldemort really was back, and some inventive story to explain the Death Eaters away was being flogged to the general public.

Most of Ron and Hermione's time, however, was spent cleaning. Now that the Ministry had accepted the truth, the Order no longer needed to amass members in secret. New people were arriving all the time, and some of them needed to stay at the Order, either permanently or just overnight. Thus, more bedrooms were needed, and rooms for discussions and meetings, and most importantly of all, bathrooms. With up to twenty people staying in the house at once, the queue for the shower could get very, very long, which meant cleaning out more. Some of the things they'd found growing in those bathrooms had been utterly disgusting.

In the evenings, however, they became quite bored.

'We could find Ginny and play some more interesting card games.' Hermione suggested, but Ron shook his head.

'She's gone for a bath, and you know what she's like.' Ginny had a habit of spending anything up to three hours in the bath on occasion. Fred and George, apparently, used to take bets on how long it'd be before she dissolved in the bathwater.

'Shame Fred and George are off working at their joke shop. Although they'd have cheated anyway.' This was completely true.

Ron stared desolately at a corner of the bed he was lying on. 'We could write to Harry.'

'We haven't even sent the last letter yet, and we only wrote that this morning.' Hermione pointed out. 'I hope Hedwig gets here soon…'

'We could add more to the letter.' Ron said hopefully, picking at a thread on Hermione's blanket.

'There's nothing to add.'

Ron sighed and rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling above him, which was covered in heavy black velvet drapes. 'Then maybe I'll just sit here and stare at nothingness.'

Hermione sighed, picking up one of the singed playing cards and fiddling with it absently. 'There's got to be something we can do… Maybe I could go and do some studying.'

'But then I'll be on my own,' Ron pointed out. 'And even more bored than now. Come on, Hermione, don't go and study…'

She gave him a look of irritation mixed with amusement. 'It's not like you couldn't come and study too,' she told him firmly. 'You don't study nearly enough.'

'I do study enough!' he protested. 'I studied before my OWLS, remember?'

She tried to give him a strict look, but couldn't help laughing. 'We'll see how well you studied after the OWL results come out.'

'You're always going on about the OWL results,' Ron shook his head. 'Anyone would think it was the Quidditch World Cup Final or something, not a bunch of exam results.'

'Very important exam results that will influence our NEWT choices, options after Hogwarts and career choices,' Hermione pointed out, nervousness suddenly clouding her face. 'I hope I did okay…'

Ron shook his head in bewilderment. 'Why are you worried? Everyone knows you'll have got all Es. You were studying for _months_.'

'I'm still nervous, though,' Hermione sighed, before looking up curiously. 'You really think I'll get all Es? I mean, that's terribly difficult…'

Ron was about to point out that he couldn't remember a single incidence of Hermione getting less than ninety percent in an exam, when their conversation was interrupted. They heard someone come in through the front door, followed by Mrs. Weasley's pleasantly surprised voice ringing out, 'Albus, why are you here? I thought you were staying at the school overnight!'

Ron and Hermione looked at each other, wide grins spreading across their faces and their eyes lighting up. Professor Dumbledore's arrival was always a chance to petition him for news about Harry. He received all the reports of those set to watch him at the Dursley's, and so was extremely well informed about how he was doing. Plus, they could beg for Harry to be brought back to the Order.

'Come on, let's go see him,' Ron grinned, and together they raced to the door, heading for the stairs. But as they reached the banister, they heard Mrs. Weasley shout angrily.

'What on earth are you _thinking_, Dumbledore!'

They skidded to a halt, sharing nervous and puzzled glances. Normally, Mrs. Weasley was completely in agreement with anything Dumbledore suggested – within reason. What had he done this time?

They leaned over the banister, looking at the scene spread out below them. Mrs. Weasley had gone white, her eyes wide and horrified; beside her, Mr. Weasley was trying ineffectually to calm her. Tonks and one of the newer members stood tactfully to one side. Dumbledore remained serene as always, smiling at Mrs. Weasley quite calmly. And by Dumbledore's side…

…by Dumbledore's side stood _Draco Malfoy_.

Hermione gasped, and Ron let out a hastily muffled expletive. Below them, the scene continued to unfold.

'I have extremely good reasons for this, Molly.' Dumbledore told her peaceably, having a complete lack of any effect on Mrs. Weasley, who stood there and stared in outrage at Malfoy. The Slytherin crossed his arms irritably and scowled at her.

'What the hell _is_ Dumbledore thinking?' Ron whispered angrily to Hermione. 'What's that slimy Slytherin doing here?'

'I haven't a clue.' Hermione replied in a low voice, not moving her eyes from the scene before her. She felt almost dizzy, as though her surroundings were becoming faded and vague with as much substance as mist. Except for the scene below her, which seemed to be a separate bubble of reality, like watching something in a cinema. The scene below her was _alive_.

Lupin chose that moment to poke his head round the kitchen door, obviously alerted by Mrs. Weasley's shouts. He looked even more weary and worn than usual, ever since Sirius had died. His hair was unbrushed and patchy, his skin pale, and there were bags under his eyes.

'Anything the matter?' he asked in his quiet voice, and when he saw Malfoy, '_Oh_…'

This only served to get one of Malfoy's prize-winning scowls sent directly at him Mrs. Weasley began to turn an exceptional tone of deep pink, which caused Ron to frown.

'This doesn't look good.' he whispered. 'She's getting mad now… _not_ without reason. It's a good thing they got that portrait down, she'd set her off screaming again… Oh no,' Ron added faintly, looking very apprehensive, 'here she goes…'

At that moment, Mrs. Weasley exploded.

'I don't know _what_ you were thinking, Dumbledore.' She said, over-loud, quivering as she spoke, 'but I refuse to put up with it. I accepted Mundungus even though he's little more than a crooked thief, I coped with the filth and the grime and the squalor, but I will not,' her voice raised, and she pointed directly at Malfoy, 'cope with THIS!'

A ringing silence settled over the hallway. Malfoy's scowl turned particularly murderous, but he didn't speak. Below his breath, Ron murmured, 'Well said, Mum.'

'Molly,' Dumbledore began, looking suddenly very old and very weary, 'I understand that it is… difficult for you to cope with the conditions at the Order, and that they must be very unlike the ones you have at home. But this is the headquarters of the Order, and because of that some things must happen here that cannot be avoided…

'And _he_ cannot be avoided?' Mrs. Weasley was beginning to sound almost hysterical; Mr. Weasley tried to calm her, but was ignored utterly. 'Albus, you know what the Malfoys are like! That boy's father is a Death Eater, he tries to get Arthur _sacked_, and you know it was him who gave Ginny that diary and almost got her _killed_! And then you invite his son to come to the Order, and I won't stand for it!'

Mr. Weasley attempted to reason with her and was completely ignored. Lupin stepped forward and took Mrs. Weasley firmly by the elbow. 'Molly, just listen to Albus. You know he wouldn't do something like this without a very good reason…'

Mrs. Weasley tried and failed to shove Lupin away, then resorted to throwing Malfoy a glare as foul as his own. Dumbledore stepped forward and took Mrs. Weasley by the arm.

'Arthur, would you be so kind as to contact everyone you can and tell them there's an important meeting? In about ten minutes, if they can all get here that fast. Tonks, if you could show our guest to one of the bedrooms? Now, Molly, please try to calm yourself. I promise that there is a _very_ good reason…'

He steered her into the kitchen; the door closed behind them and they could be heard no more, much to Ron and Hermione's annoyance, leaving the others behind. Mr. Weasley turned to Lupin, who was standing in rather a perplexed state outside the kitchen door. 'Remus, would you help me get everyone together? There's at least twenty who aren't doing anything important tonight, if not more…' 

They left together, discussing who could be contacted. Tonks turned to Malfoy with a bright cheery smile, which contrasted rather comically with his surly glare.

'So, nice to meet you – your name's Draco, isn't it? Thought so. Anyway, call me Tonks, because if you use my first name I'm _very_ good at some rather nasty hexes and I'm not afraid to use them… Come on then, you look exhausted, not to mention soaked through. Just follow me, there's a free room quite close.' She started up the stairs, Malfoy trailing behind her. 'I hope you don't mind…'

Ron elbowed Hermione sharply in the side. 'Come on,' he whispered, 'I don't want them to know we were eavesdropping…'

'Good point.' Hermione replied, and the two scurried off down the corridor, back to Hermione's room. They pulled the door to, leaving just enough of a gap to peer through.

Tonks appeared a moment later, chattering ceaselessly, with a stony faced Draco in tow behind her. It occurred to Hermione that this was the first time she had seen him without robes on. Instead, he wore a simple pair of trousers and, oddly, a crimson jumper, which looked as though it had been borrowed. It was far too big for him, and she somehow doubted he'd choose to wear red. And – she frowned at this – while his hair and trousers were soaking wet, as though he'd spent hours in the rain, the jumper was barely damp.

To their horror, Tonks showed Draco to a room only a few doors down from their own. Still chattering, she pulled it open and showed him in, recommending that he 'get out of those wet things, or you'll get a cold'. Then, she gave a final grin and left, humming one of the latest tunes off the Wizarding Wireless.

Ron pulled the door shut.

'Well, Dumbledore must be off his rocker,' he said disbelievingly, taking a seat on the bed. 'Bringing Malfoy _here_… I don't blame Mum for losing her head.'

Hermione frowned at him, wandering across the room aimlessly. 'He must have a reason,' she thought aloud. 'Like Lupin said. Dumbledore wouldn't bring someone like Malfoy here without a good reason…'

'Or unless he was completely out of his mind…' Ron muttered, but Hermione paid no attention.

'Maybe he's on our side,' she suggested. 'Like Snape. People do change sides…'

Ron snorted and threw her a contemptuous look. 'Oh, come on. _Malfoy_ change sides? That's about as likely as Professor Flitwick going bonkers and coming to class in a fluorescent pink tutu, and you know it. You know what Malfoy's like. I've known what kinds of things they do since I was old enough to talk. They're evil, Hermione, pure evil. Every single one of them, murderers and Dark wizards… You only have to look at the history books to see it.

Against that, Hermione had no argument; she'd read half the library's stock of history books and knew full well the actions of previous Malfoys. Still, that didn't explain why the present-day one was here…

Ron spoke up. 'Maybe Dumbledore's captured him. Like a prisoner of war. They could hold him to ransom!'

Hermione gave him a derisory look. 'People only hold people to ransom in adventure books, Ron. Besides, the Order has enough money. Having him as a prisoner of war might hold some water… but then, why put him in a room on the second floor that he could easily escape from? Those windows are more than big enough to fit through, and he could easily think of some way to get to the ground safely…'

Ron shrugged, looking a little put out. 'It's a mystery then. Though he probably won't be here long, if my mum has anything to do with it. Did you see the way she was yelling! I bet…'

A sudden tap at the window made the two of them jump. They looked around to see Hedwig, hovering expectantly at the window, waiting to be let in. With a hopeful smile on her face, Hermione walked over and undid the catch.

'Hello, Hedwig, how's Harry?' she asked, giving the snowy owl her arm to perch on. Hedwig clambered on, and gave a drawn-out, doleful hoot, almost as if she understood Hermione's words.

Sighing, her brow creasing in worry, Hermione fastened the ornate catch with one hand – it was still drizzling outside, and cold for the time of year – and carried Hedwig over to the bed, where she sat down beside Ron. Pulling the haphazardly-tied scroll from Hedwig's leg, she allowed the owl to clamber onto the dark cotton blanket.

Holding it so that Ron could read over her shoulder, she opened the letter.

_Dear Ron and Hermione,_

_Thanks for the news. Nothing much has happened here. Dudley got into a fight, he won as usual. The weather's been good._

_Don't worry about me. Hope to see you soon,_

_-Harry._

'You alright, Hermione?' Ron asked, and Hermione realised she was biting her lip and staring down at the letter.

'I'm fine.' She said, her voice smaller than usual. She forced herself to take a deep breath. 'I just… I wish he were _here_. Where we could do something proper to help instead of just sending him stupid letters.'

'Letters are better than nothing.' Ron pointed out gently. 'And at least he won't feel completely cut off…'

'It's not him feeling cut off I'm worried about. It's _Sirius_. You remember what he was like after Cedric, well this will be ten times worse.' They'd had the conversation before, of course, but she didn't stop. 'He's going to blame himself more, because he was the one who lured Sirius out. And he'll be miserable, too, because you _know_ how much he cared for Sirius…'

Ron listened sympathetically. 'I know,' he said. 'But we can't do anything until he gets here, other than write to him It's not ideal, but it's all we've got. It's all _he's_ got.' He'd given the same advice, practically word for word, at least ten times before. Hermione didn't seem to care.

'I just wish he'd write something,' she said, her voice oddly shrill. 'He never writes more than a few lines, I just wish he'd say something about it, talk about it… I'd rather he was screaming at us and cursing us than just not saying anything! And look,' she said with something that might have been a hiccup and might have been a sob, touching one part of the letter, 'He said the weather was good. It was raining there all yesterday, pouring down, remember - Kingsley came back from guarding him soaked through…'

Ron looked despairing. 'You aren't going to cry, are you?' he asked. Hermione gave a funny little sniff and stared distraughtly at the letter. Ron sighed.

'He'll be alright,' Ron tried to reassure her. 'Look, Dumbledore will let him come here soon, and then we'll do something proper to stop him being depressed. And until then, we'll just have to keep writing letters.'

Hermione sighed. 'But it's not…'

He didn't let her finish. 'I know that's not enough, and I know you feel awful that you can't do more because I feel the same way too, but pull yourself together. Being miserable won't do anything good. Look, he even says not to worry about him.'

'Yeah, like we're really not going to be worried when he barely writes anything and doesn't notice a huge rainstorm.' She sniffed, but seemed to be fortifying herself. 'We'd better send that letter…'

Ron nodded, and crossed to the ornate writing desk to pull out the letter they'd written between them. It was extremely long; Hermione had been adamant that they write as much as possible, to keep his spirits up. 

'Think we should add a PS and mention Malfoy?' he asked her thoughtfully. 

'Not by name. He's probably meant to be a secret…'

Ron thought for a while, then carried the letter to the table, brushed their essays aside, and picked up a quill.

_P.S. A ferret has invaded the house; Dumbledore brought it as a pet. It's very annoying, also lively and full of bounce. We hope it goes away soon._

He read this aloud to Hermione, who gave a silent nod of approval and a twitch of a smile. Sighing, Ron carried the letter back to the bed and tied it to Hedwig's leg. The snowy owl hopped obligingly onto his arm, and he carried her to the window before letting her fly away into the night.

He turned back to Hermione to see her sitting disconsolately on the bed, staring at nothing. He decided the most sensible thing to do was leave her be.

'I'm going to go to bed,' he said, checking his watch. 'It's half-ten, and I'm sleepy. Night, Hermione.'

She mumbled a, 'Goodnight,' as Ron crossed the room. With a last attempt at a grin, he pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Hermione alone with her worries.

~*~

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Things are beginning to get a little more interesting – and there are still plenty of questions just waiting for their answers to be revealed! In the next chapter, I can promise you some exciting revelations, plus a closer look at both Draco and Harry…

In the meantime, reviews would be greatly appreciated… 


	3. Negative Emotions

**Chapter 2: Negative Emotions**

**Disclaimer:** If I claimed to own all of Harry Potter, would anyone actually notice? What kind of lawyers ramble around the internet reading fanfiction anyway? If a fanfiction with no disclaimer falls in the virtual forest, and no lawyers are there to hear it, does it actually get sued? I'll stop with the questions now. I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters, places or events, just in case it does get sued.

**Thanks for 50 (!) reviews goes to:** storm079, Saotoshi, Flexi Lexi, Vfoxy713, KrystyWroth, animegirl-mika, luckdragon, Rebecca15, simrun, dracomione-shorty, Ashes Kittyhawk, xxxxVYLENTxxxx, Pheonix, Spri9, willowfairy, danapotter, PinkTribeChick, jules37, Lady Mistress, taragoddess, bibleeohfile, Plaidly Lush, 50 :P!

**A/N:** As I type this, I am in the wonderfully gleeful state of having finished my mock exams. I think the worst one was Maths, where we were shut in a tiny Portakabin with no windows or doors open, and my overactive imagination started worrying that there wasn't enough oxygen in the room for everyone and we were all going to die. It's very hard to do maths when you think you're suffocating. My favourite was Latin poetry or the English descriptive writing. They were fun.

But you don't want to hear about my exams, I'm well aware – you just want to find out the answers to some unanswered questions, such as who the half-Fallen in Dumbledore's office was, how they tie in with the plot, and why Draco's at the Order. Well, wonder no more, for here it is.

Enjoy.

~*~

_I am the angel that never felt._

**_-Abigor, Luminescence of Darkness_**

~*~

Draco closed the door behind him with a soft click, and slumped against the wall, head bent and shoulders slouched, his silvery hair falling into his eyes. He folded his arms behind his back, curving his spine so that they rested in the gap between the small of his back and the cold, smooth wall, such a strange texture… Though in all probability it was normal; he hadn't had a human mind long enough to understand textures.

But textures were the least of his worries. Quite apart from all the other changes in his senses – he could smell and taste things far, far better, but it seemed that the number of colours in the world had halved, and his hearing had worsened, too – there were far, far more worrying changes to be addressed. The problems of… well, _feeling_ things. Emotions. 

He hated thinking of them; it reminded him of what he had lost. Instead, he raised his head again and glanced around the room. It was decorated in what was probably a nice shade of blue; the darkness and his alterations in vision made it difficult to tell. A large bay window, complete with window seat, dominated one wall. To one side of it were a row of bookcases, loaded with what appeared to be mainly fiction novels, and a few ornaments scattered around. On the other side of the window was a large mirror, a desk, a wardrobe and, tucked neatly into the corner, a large and comfortable-looking bed.

All in all, a nice room. Looking around it sparked a few of these feelings, these emotions. They came in different strengths, he'd come to realise recently, and these were all rather weak ones. He spent some time in attempting to place them.

What he'd felt when he'd seen the window-seat had been… pleasure? He could tell it was a good feeling rather than a bad one, but it was hard to do more than that, and as for specific names of emotions… Upon seeing the rows of what he surmised was rather inferior fiction, that had been a negative emotion, though he had no idea which. 

It was harder than you'd guess, Draco reflected. Being human, that was. He supposed it was easier if you were born one – you could learn it all as it went along, not suddenly find yourself experiencing everything at once. Even thinking about it made his head ache. Was this how humans thought all the time? Not with one simple, clear line of thought, but with all these levels… thoughts and sub-thoughts and feelings and instincts and things that wouldn't go into words. It must drive them insane.

He shook his head, and moved away from the wall, his fingers trailing idly along its surface. The texture was foreign to his fingertips, so very, very strange… Textures had always been simply smooth or rough, hot or cold, with no fine gradation between them. He didn't know the words to describe any other textures; he'd never needed to.

Draco crossed the room soundlessly to the large mirror, to look at his own reflection. He didn't look any different. Same pale skin, same silvery hair, same build, same features… His eyes were a little different, perhaps. They showed real emotion, now, where before any emotion had all been false, merely an act. Here it was easier to identify feelings; he had always been taught to read emotion in others, and use it to his advantage, even if he didn't understand it himself.

So what did he see? Fear. That was understandable; he was in a house with his enemies, weaker and more vulnerable than he had been for years, so soon after his personalities had flipped and he'd been plunged into a living nightmare…

The mirror cut into his thoughts, speaking in a bright and cheery voice, with an accent he couldn't quite place. 'Oooh, you're a pretty one, aren't you?'

Draco cocked his head on one side. _That_ was a positive feeling, and one he liked. Pride, he guessed, from what he'd learnt and heard of it.

'Thank you,' he said simply. It was formality only.

He wondered if his other form looked any different – his Fallen form, that was. It had never looked much different to his human form before, but now that the personalities had flipped, he suddenly wondered if it might.

Pulling the jumper he'd been lent off, he ignored the mirror's appreciative whistle, and concentrated for a brief second. The change was sudden: no gradual morphing from one form into another, just human one second, human-with-wings the next.

The mirror actually gasped – the first time he'd heard a mirror do that - and whispered, 'Oooh!' in a rather shocked tone. Again, Draco ignored it, scrutinising himself for any difference.

As usual, there was none. Same face, same hair, same body. The eyes were still the changed ones he'd worn in his human form, the fearful, worried ones, but he'd expected that. His wings still arched around him, the feathers long and white. He folded them around himself, then stretched them to their full length – well beyond the edges of the mirror – and gave a small experimental flap.

No change. Satisfied, he turned to his bed without changing back to his human form, and sat upon it, wrapping his wings around him. He hadn't realised it before, but the room was cold.

Ah, and here was something he could put a name to. He'd read it in ancient books, passed down through many, many ancestors – _The wings of a half-Fallen, when touched, produce feelings of warmth and contentment_ – which provided a name to the feeling he felt as he wrapped his wings around himself. Contentment. It was a nice feeling, and he liked it.

But it would be a foolish thing to sleep in Fallen form, because someone was likely to come in to wake him up the next morning, or creep in at midnight to check he was asleep. So, wrapping the covers around himself, he changed back to human form, and instantly felt a lot worse.

It was what he'd seen in the mirror. Fear, mainly, but other things too. All bad things. He'd been feeling them ever since his mind had become human, he knew all too well, and they all had to do with the difficulties that change presented. He'd never chosen it, no. It had just… happened. His mother had hugged him. Ridiculous, and yet…

It had been enough – not alone, he was certain; years of love on his mother's part must have built up a lot of the force that caused him to change – but it had been enough to cause that change, to plunge him into a mind of emotions and instincts and madness, where not even his senses could be trusted. Having to hide it from his father, who was half-Fallen himself and would have regarded it – without emotion – as an extremely bad change, and done goodness-knows-what horrible things to change him back. And finally, after a week of hiding, his mother had told him to run away. To Dumbledore, of all people!

He had flown straight to Hogwarts, knowing that the Headmaster would most probably be staying there overnight after the beginning of the Ministry meetings. He had spent a good hour or so explaining everything he knew to Dumbledore, who had listened in amazement. And then decided that the safest place for Draco was at the Order of the Pheonix – surrounded by people who hated him.

He would be safer here, and he knew that. But more than anything, he wanted to go back to being a Fallen mind, not a human one, without feelings, with nothing but calm logic, and all emotions pretended and acted in order to produce a desired effect. He tried it then, as he had so many times before, to simply make his minds switch back. He could feel the Fallen half of him, trying forcibly to regain dominance, and he called out to it, trying to pull it back… But the damned human mind wouldn't let him; it wouldn't let itself die. Self-preservation, he supposed wryly. Damn.

He was tired, then, and knew he needed to rest. And so, curled beneath the blankets, surrounded by enemies and strangers, lost in a world of strange and bizarre emotions, Draco Malfoy slept.

~*~

It was morning.

Dawn had already been and gone: the sun had risen early, and was already halfway up the sky, brightly pouring its light onto the rows of quiet suburban homes, the cars sitting polished in their driveways, the summer flowers and lush grass. It was a milder summer than the previous one; pleasantly warm without being scorching, the seemingly perfect weather brightening everyone's mood.

Almost everyone. For in one room of one house – the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive – the sun shone through the open window to light up the figure of a boy lying asleep on his bed. Golden sunlight reflected sharply off eerily pale skin, highlighted a body that seemed thin, almost frail – for he'd kicked his blankets off in the middle of the night, and still tossed restlessly, the occasional word or mutter escaping from his lips.

With a sudden cry of 'Sirius!' his eyes flew open and he flung himself upright, reaching out a hand to the empty air as though trying to catch hold of something, something that wasn't there, for his grip closed on nothing.

Still shaking a little from his nightmare, Harry Potter took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, closing his eyes, attempting to push the memories away. It seemed harder and harder every time, especially here, at the Dursleys', alone with nothing to distract him.

He opened his eyes, glanced at the rather battered clock that rested beside his bed. Ten to seven. The morning news would be on in a few minutes, Harry realised, with the usual twinge of dread that always accompanied the thought of watching the news. His aunt and uncle were no problem, not after Moody had spoken to them at the station, and Dudley now flat-out refused to be in the same room as Harry. No, the dread came from the thought of what Harry knew he'd see: more murders, more Dark Marks, more death and destruction caused by Voldemort. Voldemort, who he had to kill or be killed by. It was still not an easy thing to accept.

Sighing, Harry swung himself out of bed, bending down to pick up his blankets, which he spread carelessly back into position before dressing himself quickly, in an old, rather worn pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. Both Dudley's old things, though Harry paid no attention to the clothes he was putting on. His mind was still back in the nightmare. In many ways, he never left it.

Harry walked down the stairs quite slowly, already able to hear the sound of the television playing an advert for Coca-Cola. Uncle Vernon was declaring loudly that the stuff was so acidic, it could dissolve teeth, so why they thought people would drink it he didn't know… Dudley had tried putting a tooth in Coca-Cola once, when Harry was about seven and lost the last of his milk teeth. Aunt Petunia had thrown it out.

Harry walked into the living room, keeping his eyes on the floor. He could feel his aunt and uncle throwing him baleful glares – they always did – but as had become routine, he ignored them and they said nothing as Harry took a seat on the sofa, fixing his gaze on the television. Dudley, knowing that Harry always watched the morning news, was staying well out of the way in the kitchen or his room or outside with his friends, Harry neither knew nor cared which.

The adverts ended, and the familiar opening animation and music appeared on the screen, with the words 'The News at Seven' printed in the top corner. The newscaster appeared, neatly dressed in a smart suit, and Harry held his breath, tense. Maybe nothing had happened…

'Welcome to the News at Seven. I'm Ethan Mercury.' Another burst of noise, and the shot cut to show the newsreader closer in, with a screen to his left. Harry's heart sank. Yet again, the screen showed a glittering, sinister picture of the Dark Mark. Uncle Vernon turned a deep crimson, and appeared to be muttering something about 'those filthy wizards' until a pale Aunt Petunia glared at him. At least Harry wasn't the only one in the house who understood the threat of Lord Voldemort…

'Last night the new terrorist group known only as the 'Death Eaters' struck again, at the home of a single mother with two children in Liverpool. All three were killed.'

The shot cut to show the house with the Dark Mark still visible in broad daylight, and a mass of cars surrounding it. Various 'policemen' were shown – though they were really Aurors, and Harry recognised both Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody in the midst of the investigations.

'The situation is being handled by a special, investigative branch of the police force, trained specifically to handle terrorist attacks such as this, and members of the Death Eaters are being arrested almost daily. Searches continue for their leader, a man known only as Lord Voldemort, but in the meantime the public should stay alert for any signs of suspicious activity. A phone number hotline has been set up, which the public should phone immediately upon witnessing any signs of Death Eaters, and police operators are manning the phones continually.'

The number scrolled across the bottom of the screen, and the video in the background had changed to show a list of bullet points, which the newsreader proceeded to announce, much as he'd done for the past few weeks.

'Members of this terrorist organisation routinely wear black hoods and cloaks when performing their activities. In addition, they bear the tattoo of a snake-tongued skull on their left forearm, the same symbol which they project a hologram of into the sky over the site of their attacks. If you see any suspicious figures, or witness a holographic projection of the 'Dark Mark' symbol, then immediately phone the number.

'In other news, the House of Commons will…'

Harry stood up, a sickening feeling settling in the bottom of his stomach, and turned to leave the room. It seemed that every morning held the same thing – more news of Voldemort, more attacks, more deaths, and every death just seemed to make it all hurt more, as though by killing some Muggle that Harry had never seen or met, the Death Eaters had killed a part of Harry too.

Uncle Vernon began another rant as Harry left the room, more irate mutterings about dangerous madmen with wands and how he was surprised the whole world wasn't dead, and this time Aunt Petunia didn't say anything. Harry ignored him, brushing some of his dark hair out of his eyes and heading for his room. He'd heard the ramblings too often for them to have any effect.

Sighing, he reached his room and flopped wearily upon the bed. Sirius was dead. Voldemort was killing Muggles and Muggleborns almost daily, and a prophecy had been made that meant he must be murderer or victim. The concept was almost too huge for him to grasp. How could he kill Voldemort? An impossible, ridiculous, laughable idea, but he had to do it or die himself.

Maybe he was still in shock. Or denial. Maybe he still hadn't quite accepted it yet. It was too much all at once – the prophecy, and Sirius's death, which never quite left his thoughts. It was always there, just under his consciousness, whispering, a tiny voice: _Sirius is dead, Sirius is dead, you killed him, you went to the Department of Mysteries, you lured him there, you killed him…_

'Shut up,' Harry muttered to no one in particular, running a hand through his messy hair. 'Go away.' Sighing, he turned over on his bed, staring at the wall. All his homework was done, every book he could access read and re-read until he couldn't stand the sight of them. There was nothing to distract him from his thoughts, save the news, and that only reminded him of Voldemort. He could go outside, and had done in the first few weeks, but it offered nothing to distract him either, only the frowns and stares of strangers when they noticed the peculiar boy sitting silently and staring at nothing.

So now he just spent the whole day in his room, apart from the morning when he watched the news. Ron and Hermione owled him daily, and he read their letters, but without great enthusiasm. More than he ever had, he felt alone now. Not uncared for; Ron and Hermione's letters proved that beyond all doubt, but _alone_. However much they cared, his friends couldn't understand what it felt like. To be the one everyone expected to defeat Voldemort. To know you'd led someone – _Sirius_ – to his death. They couldn't understand that.

They thought they did. Every single letter – _We know you must be feeling dreadful, don't get too upset, it wasn't your fault.... please don't get angry… don't worry about You-Know-Who…_ But how could they give advice to him, when they didn't know about the Prophecy, when they'd never felt the pain and the sorrow and the responsibility of having to save everyone, the fear and the worry and above all the guilt, the guilt of having led Sirius to his death, the guilt of being unable to do anything while Voldemort killed innocent people, the guilt…

No. Harry realised he was shaking, and shoved all the feelings away, as hard as he could. It was difficult, far too difficult, because they never went away entirely, they never left no matter how much he wanted them to.

He had to focus on something else. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what life would have been like if none of this had happened. If Sirius hadn't died. If there'd never been a Prophecy. If Voldemort had never come to power. If his parents hadn't been murdered. If he'd never had to come to the Dursleys'. If he'd just been normal.

He'd seen the house, in photographs. About the same size as the Burrow, but more like a normal Muggle house, on a quiet road with a tiny garden at the front, and a slightly bigger one at the back. They'd be living there now, if his life had been just a little different, and the Dursleys would be no more than a card every Christmas – a card sent, not one received. Perhaps… perhaps he'd invite Ron and Hermione to stay over the summer holidays, instead of going to the Burrow or the Order. There wouldn't even be an Order, in the impossible world he was wishing for himself. There would have been no Voldemort to fight.

What would happen? What would he be doing right now? Talking to Ron and Hermione about… something simple, something that everyone talked about. Quidditch, perhaps, or schoolwork. Hermione would be nagging them to do their homework, and he and Ron would be laughing, and pointing out that they didn't go back to school for weeks. And then they'd go downstairs for breakfast, with his parents – and Sirius would be there too. What would they – his parents - talk about? How would they act? He didn't know, so he couldn't hope to imagine it realistically. He didn't even know what normal families talked about.

But then, it didn't have to be realistic, did it? Just… just happy. Just better than the reality.

So he invented. Over piping hot toast, golden with butter, they'd talk about everything and anything. His Dad and Sirius would tell them all stories of when they'd been Marauders at Hogwarts, or they'd talk about Quidditch until his Mum and Hermione told them all to change the subject. They'd talk about what they were going to do that day, perhaps…

Harry carried on, forcing himself to concentrate only on the imaginary life he could have led if things had been different, a small smile on his face – not a genuinely happy smile, but the smile of one who is determined to _make_ himself happy. And he would have carried on all day but for the tap of an owl on the window, which forced him to open his eyes and realise that what he'd imagined was not reality, and never could be.

Sighing, Harry crossed to the window to let in Hedwig, a fat scroll of parchment tied to her leg. She perched on his shoulder – there wasn't really enough room – and hooted dolefully, rubbing her feathered head against his cheek, as if she could feel her owner's misery.

'I'm okay, Hedwig,' he muttered, idly stroking her feathers and untying the letter, which he tossed carelessly on the bed. 'Here, there's some water and food and things in your cage…'

He put her inside it, from where she watched him with eyes that seemed wide and worried. Harry sat back down on his bed with a sigh, feeling once more the twist of guilt, the weight on his shoulders, the misery over Sirius.

_Sirius. You killed him, you led him to his death. He's gone now, forever, because of you. And all those people who the Death Eaters are killing, they're going to keep on dying, all the time that you're getting ready to kill Voldemort, people will be dying…_

'No,' Harry moaned, putting his hands to his head and trying to block them out again. 'Stop it…'

Hedwig hooted in something like alarm, and Harry shook his head. 'Really, Hedwig. I'm okay.' As if to prove it, he took up Ron and Hermione's letter and read through it, though he didn't read it closely. It was all about things like cleaning the house; what they'd been doing, in as much detail as they could give without saying anything of importance. He didn't care. He didn't long for information any more. And the whole thing was smothered in supporting messages, trying to make him feel better…

With a sigh, he dropped the letter to one side, not even bothering to decipher the hidden information Ron and Hermione had spent so long thinking up. He was too weary of the world. They were his friends, and he cared about them, and they were at least trying to help this time, even if they couldn't do anything…

Hedwig hooted again, questioningly now, and Harry realised that he ought to send Ron and Hermione a letter back. Sighing, he picked their letter up from the floor and carried it to his desk, smoothing it out on the wooden surface. He took a fresh piece of parchment and a quill, and tried very hard to think of anything to say.

_Ron & Hermione,_

_Don't worry about me so much, I'm okay. Glad to hear the cleaning's going well. Is everyone there doing alright? Say hi to Ginny, Fred and George, etc. for me._

_See you soon,_

_Harry._

He tied the parchment to Hedwig's leg, absently stroked her head, and opened the window to let her go. Then he sat upon his bed, trying not to think about anything. Trying to forget.

~*~

**A/N:** Yes, Harry's miserable. Draco's also miserable, except he isn't able to understand misery yet beyond 'It's a negative emotion'. You know what? Reviews make them feel better. Really. 


	4. Food and Fights

**Chapter 3: Food and Fights**

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter, the books would include FAWSSJW!Draco (FallenAngelWingedSexyShirtlessJeansWearing!Draco, as my Delta dubbed him after raving insanely about his *ahem* physical appearance). Since the books don't include FAWSSJW!Draco, you may conclude that I don't own them.

**Thanks for 72 reviews goes to:** Pheonix, willowfairy, Simpson-Girl, Storm079, Rebecca15, Lyra Silvertongue2, jules37, Saotoshi, Vfoxy713, Queen Jessica, tom4eva, luckdragon, DracMione (x3), Simrun, danapotter, Beauty Full, KeWlGaL8tH, Flaming-June, Plaidly Lush.

**A/N:** Well, I surprised myself by actually doing well in my mocks despite the fact that most of my revision was… no, not even mad cramming on the night before, I waited until the bus journey to school on the morning, but… I only disgraced myself in one subject (Chemistry, by neglecting to learn ion tests) and did well in all the others. So I was pleased.

It's really surprising how many questions I keep noticing that I need to answer. And the early chapters keep you in the dark, rather – a lot of the intricacies have to wait a while in order to come out – annoying, but it means there's always some interesting things to be brought out in the later chapters. And the alternative is a huge long lecture and then a lot of the exciting parts of the plot being diminished. Which would be bad.

But you aren't here for that! You're here for the fic. Here it is – enjoy!

~*~

_In time we hate that which we often fear. _

**_William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)_**

~*~

The enticing smell of Mrs Weasley cooking breakfast had an annoying way of creeping, gently, under every door and through every crack in the whole of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The warm, promising scent of toast coated lavishly with hot golden butter, sausages bursting with juice and flavour, crispy rashers of bacon and freshly fried eggs, all cooked to perfection, filled the entire house and lured its inhabitants from their beds far earlier than they would otherwise have arisen, stumbling sleepily down the stairs towards the kitchen.

This was the sole reason why Ron and Ginny were making their way downstairs, hastily washed and dressed and still yawning, their stomachs rumbling loudly. Hermione was with them, although more wide-awake than her friends – she was, and always had been, a definite morning person.

'I'm going to eat breakfast and then go straight back to bed,' Ginny moaned, rubbing her eyes. 'I feel like I could sleep for a century…'

'We can't today, remember?' Hermione pointed out. 'We're cleaning again. Your mum said she wanted to start right after breakfast.'

'Oh, _no_,' groaned Ron. 'It's that bathroom isn't it? The one next to the bedroom that was filled with Bundimuns… That's going to take all day!'

'Then we spend as long eating breakfast as possible, and I'm going to sleep on the table.' Ginny said with another long yawn, pushing open the kitchen door and stepping inside.

One of the larger drawing rooms had been converted into a kitchen, after it was realised that the old kitchen was far too small to feed the growing numbers of people at the Order. With a lot of cleaning, new furniture, wizarding kitchen appliances and a complete redecoration, it had transformed from a filthy, unused, dingy room into a clean and bright kitchen, the air of which always seemed to be laced with fantastic culinary aromas.

Mrs Weasley stood in front of two massive frying pans, humming a snatch of a tune from the Wizarding Wireless as she prodded the sausages with a spatula. She seemed in a much better mood than any of them had expected, and the two Weasleys knew their mother well enough to know that the small, satisfied smile on her face meant that she was particularly pleased about something.

She looked up at their arrival, and gave the three of them a wide, beaming smile. 'Oh, I have wonderful news for you!' she said, almost overflowing with happiness. 'Dumbledore's finally agreed, he's going to bring Harry back here as soon as possible.'

Ron punched the air with a wild whoop, a grin splitting his face. Hermione had to restrain herself from giving a little gasp of excitement, and Ginny, while not as close to Harry as Ron and Hermione were, was just as delighted as the both of them.

'Oh, Mrs Weasley, that's brilliant!' Hermione exclaimed, looking positively radiant. 'When's he coming?'

'Either tonight or tomorrow morning, depending on when enough members of the Order are free,' Mrs Weasley informed them, flipping bacon happily.

'Wicked,' Ron grinned. 'How on earth did you get Dumbledore to agree to it?'

For the first time, Mrs Weasley's expression soured. 'A compromise,' she said stiffly. 'It was just about the time when Harry could leave those Dursleys safely anyway, and Dumbledore said Harry could come if I agreed to tolerate that… that _Malfoy_.' Her eyes narrowed, and she gripped the spatula very tightly. 'I don't want any of you going near him any more than you have to, you understand? Though Dumbledore's insisted that he helps with the cleaning… Sometimes I worry that he's going senile, I really do…'

'We're going to be stuck with Malfoy for the cleaning?' Ron gaped, looking horrified. 'But Mum, that'll be ages…'

Ginny looked thoughtful. 'Well, it might be worth it to see Draco Malfoy, the rich spoiled brat, scrubbing away at a patch of mould on the bathroom floor…' she mused, looking extremely amused. Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth to hold back her laughter, and Ron snorted, shaking his head.

'That may be, but remember, I still don't want any of you speaking to him, alright?' Mrs Weasley said firmly. 'That boy's _dangerous_. If I had my way, he wouldn't be allowed to live in the same country as us, but… Dumbledore knows what he's doing, I suppose.'

'Don't worry Mum, I'd rather eat Bubotuber pus than talk to Malfoy.' Ron said firmly. 'So you've nothing to worry about, except perhaps your youngest son starving to death surrounded by food…' He gave the frying pan of sausages a meaningful look. Ginny rolled her eyes.

'You never change, do you, Ron?' she asked, smiling.

'And he never will.' Mrs Weasley gave her son a fond smile. 'Sausages and bacon alright with you, Ron?'

'A fried egg too, please,' he requested. Ginny asked for the same, and Hermione, lacking the famous Weasley appetite, had two sausages and a slice of toast.

'Is that really all you're having, Hermione?' Ron asked, eyeing her meagre portion as he took a seat at the table and digging into his bacon.

Hermione laughed. 'I never see how you and Ginny can eat so much. If I tried to eat as much as you I'd be sick.'

'Well, when you grow up with Mum's food, you always want seconds.' Ginny grinned at her mother, who laughed and accused her of flattery with intent to get more sausages.

They weren't the only ones there. The kitchen table was littered with people enjoying Mrs Weasley's cooking; various members of the order, both old and new, clustered round the table. Some were eating alone; most were chatting casually to friends or associates.

Hermione, Ron and Ginny took their seats about midway down the long table, fairly close to Lupin and Tonks. Lupin was staring absently at his plate, his forehead furrowed in thought as it was far too often since the death of Sirius. Tonks, her hair a particularly fetching shade of blue, was regarding him with a worried expression.

She gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow. 'Remus,' she asked, 'are you going to eat those sausages? Because if you don't, I'll eat them so fast you won't even see them go down.'

Lupin looked up, giving her a weak smile. 'I should eat, I guess,' he said, stabbing a particularly tempting sausage with a fork and sawing the end off, then eating it slowly.

Mrs Weasley had overheard this exchange. 'If you want some more sausages, Tonks, there's plenty more cooking,' she offered.

'Oh, no thanks Molly, I'm stuffed.' Tonks replied with a grin, before turning back to Remus and attempting to begin a conversation.

The door opened barely a second later, and Ginny looked up from her plate to see Dumbledore walk in, shortly followed by a grumpy looking Draco Malfoy, his arms folded and a baleful glare on his face. Dumbledore was saying something to Malfoy in a low tone, but other than this, the room had fallen silent, all eyes turning towards Malfoy. Mrs Weasley slammed a pan down on the stove with unnecessary force, and Ron muttered an insult under his breath as Malfoy took the nearest seat to the door, a spot that was fairly isolated from anyone else.

'Ah, Molly.' Dumbledore said, turning to Mrs Weasley with a deliberately cheerful expression. 'Would you be so kind as to serve some breakfast?'

Dumbledore always ate the same thing for breakfast – two sausages, one slice of toast with butter – which Mrs Weasley stonily placed on a plate for him. She didn't ask what Malfoy wanted, but instead shoved two slightly overcooked sausages, a somewhat charred piece of toast and a few slices of bacon onto a place, which she slammed down in front of Malfoy with such force it was a wonder the plate didn't shatter.

The conversation between other members of the Order gradually picked up again, but Mrs Weasley's mouth remained set firmly in a thin line for the rest of the meal. Ron scowled and bit into a forkful of bacon.

'Hah! Good on Mum for giving him the burnt bits. Bet he doesn't like that!'

'Mmm,' Hermione mused vaguely, glancing up again in Malfoy's direction. The blond Slytherin looked murderous, biting with an irritated expression into a mouthful that, judging by his expression, was probably more charcoal than meat. There was something else about him, too – he didn't look quite so self-confident as he usually did. He was out of place here, Hermione realised – he simply didn't fit.

'Hey,' Ginny said, distracting Hermione's thoughts, 'has Harry written back yet? Any change?'

Hermione blinked, taking a moment for her mind to get back on track, before sighing and responding with a frown, 'Yes, Hedwig came last night. Harry's still…'

She didn't finish the sentence, but Ginny understood. 'Not good?'

'He said it was nice weather yesterday. And you know it was pouring down with rain…'

Ron looked up from the sausages and gave the two girls a hopeful smile. 'Come on, you two, cheer up. He's coming tonight, remember? It'll all be fine then.'

'People don't just get over things as quickly as that,' Ginny pointed out, slicing off a fat piece of fried egg. 'He won't just instantly get better because his friends are here. It'll take time…'

'Yes, but…' Ron seemed to be struggling to reconcile something. 'He'll be better, won't he? He won't be okay straight away, no, but he'll be better…'

Hermione heaved a deep sigh, and looked up from the piece of toast she'd been systematically mangling. 'He'll be better, Ron,' she assured him, although she knew it might not be true. Ron gave a weak smile and turned his attention back to his food.

A few mouthfuls later, Ginny spoke again. 'Malfoy could be a bit of a difficulty. We'll have to think of something to deal with that.'

Hermione looked up, and followed Ginny's eye line to where the blonde Slytherin was irritably attempting to scrape the burnt parts off his toast.

'With Harry, you mean? Yes, that could be a problem…'

'What do you mean?' Rom asked through a mouthful of bacon. He swallowed with some difficulty. 'Malfoy's _always_ a problem.'

'Yes, but think about it. Malfoy and Harry living under the same roof, and we all know what Malfoy's like around Harry. I doubt he's going to be any different – just as insulting and cruel as usual. Which would be a catalyst for…'

'Harry feeling worse,' Ron finished, looking grim. 'Or exploding, or trying to commit murder, or…'

'Other things of that nature,' Ginny finished.

Hermione was thinking. 'Well, the only way I can see of stopping Malfoy from infuriating Harry is keeping them apart. Which could be very, very difficult if they're both spending all day cleaning in the same room…'

'We have to keep Malfoy from speaking to Harry then,' Ginny said. 'With may be difficult. We could get Mum to do a _silencio_ on him…'

Ron brightened. 'Great idea, Gin!' he grinned.

'Dumbledore would never allow it if he found out,' Hermione pointed out.

Ron snorted. 'Who cares? I'd hex ferret-boy to Antarctica if it wasn't for the ban on underage magic…'

'We all would, in an ideal world,' Hermione said with a grin.

Ginny muttered something that sounded very much like, 'Why stop at Antarctica? If I had my way, I'd…' 

'We should be concentrating on what we can do,' Hermione pointed out swiftly, cutting Ginny off. 'Not what we can't. We really need to keep Malfoy from…'

Mrs Weasley cut them off, bending down to speak to them. 'You three should hurry up with that breakfast. We have a lot of cleaning to do, remember, and I want to get started.'

'But mum, I still have loads…'

'Then you'd better eat fast, Ron, I want you all ready to start cleaning in five minutes.'

'Five minutes!' came the chorus of protest from Ron and Ginny. 'Mum, we'll never eat enough in that time, we'll get indigestion.' Ginny added plaintively.

'Your own fault. Now get eating. And remember – don't talk to the Malfoy boy,' Mrs Weasley said firmly, shooting a particularly venomous glare in Malfoy's direction, before turning away.

There was silence among the trio for a good few minutes, as Ginny and Ron shovelled their food into their mouths. Hermione polished off her last slice of toast quickly, and used the time to ponder ways in which Malfoy might be prevented from insulting Harry.

It would be difficult, especially if they spent most of the day cleaning rooms together. Presumably Malfoy wouldn't try anything while Mrs Weasley was overseeing them, but there would always be times when Mrs Weasley would be out of the room, getting more cleaning supplies, making hot drinks for everyone in preparation of an upcoming break, having discussions with Dumbledore on whether there were enough bedrooms clean for everyone who wanted to stay that night…

Ron nudged Hermione's arm, and nodded towards the door, where Mrs Weasley was waiting with a box of magical cleaning supplies in one hand. Ginny hastily bolted down the last half of her sausage, and the three of them rose from the table and headed out. Malfoy, with an irritated expression, gave up on his breakfast, flinging his fork down in disgust and rising, scowling, to tag on to the back of Mrs Weasley's little group.

Ron, Hermione and Ginny kept glancing sideways at Malfoy as they followed Mrs Weasley in silence towards the bathroom. Mrs Weasley was fuming, her anger at having to suffer the presence of a Malfoy almost tangible, a feeling in the air. None of them wanted to speak, in case they inadvertently made her explode. But the surreptitious glances were acceptable. Most of the time, Malfoy was staring crossly at the ground, glaring at it as though it were personally responsible for every bad thing that had ever happened to him. Occasionally, however, he looked up, and met their curious glances with a glare so bitter, so dark, that all three of them looked away quickly rather than meet it.

It took about half a minute to reach the bathroom – the Order's headquarters were larger on the inside than outside – though it seemed far longer until Mrs Weasley stopped in front of an old, cobwebbed door, and turned to face the four of them. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air. She pointedly looked only at Hermione, Ron and Ginny, ignoring Malfoy.

'I'm fairly sure it's full of Bundimuns,' she told them, 'but since they aren't near the foundations up here, it should be alright for us to tackle them. Be careful of the floor though, it might be rotted.'

This said, she carefully opened the door. Instantly the cloying, deathly stench of rot and mould enveloped the group. Ron started to splutter and cough; Ginny turned faintly green and Hermione tried to breathe through her mouth, then found that the potent smell could practically be tasted. Mrs. Weasley glanced around looking worried. Only Malfoy seemed unaffected.

Mrs Weasley led the way, stepping cautiously into the room. When the boards held, the called back to the door, 'It's alright. Just be careful where you step.'

The smell was even worse from inside, and every patch of wall seemed covered with what appeared to be patches of greenish fungus – but when examined closely, they each sported tiny eyes, with which they watched the intruders warily. Mrs Weasley crossed to the window and struggled with the catch, which was stiff after too long without use, before finally forcing it open.

'Alright, everyone. Take a bottle each,' she said, indicating the box which was half full with cleaning products and half full with 'Mrs. Scour's All Purpose Bundimun Repellent'. 'Make sure you get all of them, remember,' she told the group, before rolling her sleeves up, grabbing one of the bottles for herself, and beginning to spray with vehemence.

Soon the room was filled with hiss of the spray bottles and the strange slithering noise of running Bundimuns. Hermione, Ron and Ginny worked on the same half of the room, helping each other to stop the Bundimuns escaping before they could get hit by the spray. Malfoy and Mrs. Weasley had the other half of the room between them. They worked in opposite corners, refusing to cooperate, and as a result far more Bundimuns escaped than should have.

At last, the Bundimuns were all gone, and Mrs. Weasley turned to the three Gryffindors with a smile. 'Well done, you three. What time is it?'

Ginny looked at her watch. 'Almost twelve.'

'Already?' Ron asked incredulously. 'It's lunchtime!'

'Well, we can't stop now… not if we want to finish this room today, and Dumbledore wants that corridor of bedrooms opened up…' Mrs Weasley looked torn, but a rumble from Ron's stomach seemed to make her decide. 'Alright, here's an idea. I'll go and make some sandwiches, while you get started cleaning. I can trust you on your own, can't I?' She said this with a meaningful look at Malfoy. The subtext was clear: could they be trusted not to have anything to do with Malfoy in her absence?

'We'll be fine, Mrs. Weasley,' said Hermione with a smile, and Mrs Weasley nodded trustingly at her and left, followed by a plea from Ron about not having corned beef in the sandwiches, leaving Hermione, Ron and Ginny alone with Malfoy.

He scowled darkly at them, looking so murderous that Ginny took a small step backwards out of surprise. With a sneer, Malfoy grabbed hold of a random selection of cleaning products with a disgusted look of contempt, before stalking over to one corner, turning his back to them and starting to read the instructions on the back of the bottles.

The three Gryffindors shared a glance, thankful to have avoided any nasty incidents. Hermione picked up some bottles for herself and handed a few to Ron and Ginny in silence. They made their way to the bath, which was in the opposite corner of the room to Malfoy, and after a few whispers, began to clean.

Silence reigned for a minute or so, as Malfoy read the instructions and unwillingly began cleaning tiles, and the Gryffindors sprayed product after product onto the bathtub, which was so badly covered in grime and mould that it was difficult to see the enamel beneath. Hermione and Ron ignored Malfoy completely – apart from a few muttered remarks from Ron at choice moments – but Ginny kept looking up at him from the bathtub and frowning.

'What is it?' Hermione asked at the third such time, her voice a whisper to keep Malfoy from hearing. 

Ginny frowned, before replying in a similar whisper. 'I just want to know why he's here, that's all. It's driving me mad trying to think…'

'He's here to make our lives a misery,' Ron suggested. 'Perhaps we were all mass murderers in a past life and he's our punishment.'

Hermione snorted. 'I think we're looking for a more mundane reason than karma, Ron. Though I have no idea either.'

Ginny looked determined. 'I'm going to ask him.'

'_What?_' hissed Hermione, alarmed. 'Ginny, don't even bother. He'll just insult you and I highly doubt he'll give you even the merest hint of an answer.'

'So?' Ginny asked. 'Insults are nothing, and I'm sure he won't try anything, not when it'd be a three-on-one fight. And you never know, he may just answer me.'

Ron shook his head at his sister. 'He wouldn't. And Mum will be mad. She told us not to have anything to do with him, remember? Loads of times. If she finds out…'

'She won't,' Ginny said confidently. 'I'm only going to ask, and it'll take her another few minutes at least to make the sandwiches. She won't find out…'

And then, before Hermione and Ron could offer another protest, she had stood up, crossed her arms, and looked straight towards the corner where Malfoy stood. 'Hey, Malfoy,' she called, her voice firm and bold, 'why are you here?'

He didn't even pause, didn't turn around. 'Mind your own business, Weasley.' He spat venomously.

Ginny was unperturbed. 'I think it _is_ my business, considering we were here first, and its we who have to put up with you for the next month. Answer my question; why are you here?'

Now he spun round to face her, temper snapped and eyes flaring, showing a very real, very dark fire that startled them all. 'Just shut up, Weasley,' he spat. 'Shut the hell up and leave me alone!'

She stood her ground. 'I only wanted to know why you were here. I don't think that's a cause for you to fly off the handle…' 

'Well it is!' he spat. 'I don't want you prying into my life and asking questions, alright? Perhaps if you weren't as dense as your stupid mother is…'

'Hey!' Ron said, glaring and getting to his feet, 'don't you dare insult my family!' By the side of the bath, Hermione held a hand to her face and silently hoped it wouldn't turn to violence.

'And what will you do to me?' Malfoy asked, the unusual light leaving his eyes and his accustomed smirk settling on his face. 'Fight me? I know spells that could get you back ten times worse.'

'There's detectors for Dark Arts all over this house.' Ron said firmly. 'Dumbledore put them up. People would be in here in seconds.

'Yes, but that wouldn't put your intestines back inside your mutilated corpse, would it?' Malfoy asked with a smile as thin and sharp as a knife, making Ron gulp. Malfoy continued. 'You Weasleys have only three brain cells. One to eat,' he counted on slender, elegant fingers, 'One to sleep. And the third and final one is there to remember which does which.'

Ron went bright red, trembling with rage, but Hermione grabbed hold of his hand and hissed, 'Leave it alone! He's not worth it.'

'Drop dead, Malfoy.' Ginny hissed, before turning her back on him and going back to the cleaning. Ron, still quivering with anger, stomped back over to the bath and began scrubbing viciously at a tough bit of grime attached to the tap. The bathroom fell back to a grim, angry silence punctuated by occasional muttered expletives from Ron.

When Mrs. Weasley returned with the sandwiches, Malfoy's plate has fewer than anyone else's, and the ones he did have were definitely slightly smaller.

'Serves him right,' muttered Ron.

~*~

**A/N:** And that's the end of the chapter. An important chapter in the way of character-development, though it might create more questions than it answers. But in the next chapter we get Harry's arrival  - which obviously adds more drama – and soon after that, there's another part where things really begin to develop…

But for now, review. Reviews make writers happy, and happy writers mean more fanfic!


	5. To Blame

**Chapter 4: To Blame**

**Disclaimer:** Kindly look out of the window for a moment. If you see a flying pig, a blue moon or Satan ice-skating to work, you may assume I own the Harry Potter books. If you don't, then I don't.

**Thanks for 94 reviews goes to:** Lyra Silvertongue2, willowfairy, Saotoshi, taragoddess, Simpson-Girl,  Storm079, heavengurl899, reader, Flexi Lexi, Pheonix, Obbsesive, Rebecca15, Energise, Lady Mistress, danapotter, jules37, Kersten Cheyne (x2), Cuppy, nadi, Plaidly Lush, PinkTribeChick!

**A/N:** Well, it's been another exciting, eventful week. Notably, my Pi turned 16 on Monday – Happy Birthday! Everyone sing; it embarrasses her and she hates it. Other events have included having to decide my A-level options (English Language, Psychology, Latin and Biology, since you asked) though things are still open to change.  Choosing is incredibly stressful and evil. And bad.

Many thanks go to my wonderful betas, who seemingly set out to completely tear the entire chapter to pathetic shreds and just end up with an in-depth, humorous commentary. You all rock.

Which is pretty much all I want to say. I'm pleased with this chapter, and as always: enjoy.

~*~

_He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare,  
And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere. _

**_Ali ibn-Abi-Talib (602 AD - 661 AD), A Hundred Sayings_**

~*~

Harry was alone in the house.

The Dursleys had left some time ago. A friend of Aunt Petunia's had given them tickets to the cinema, to see the latest one of the senselessly violent films that Dudley adored. Even if he'd been given a ticket, Harry would have refused to go. He had lost his taste for death and pain.

The Dursleys hadn't specifically forbidden him from doing anything – they barely spoke to him nowadays – but even though he could have watched TV or read a book, he didn't want to. 

He'd been lying in bed  for the past few hours, wishing he was tired enough to sleep. He didn't have to think when he was asleep – but then again, he'd have to dream of Sirius. Which was worse – lying awake and thinking about it, or reliving the past in nightmares? Harry didn't know.

He turned onto his side, which brought his room into view. It was twilight, and the dim light of a newly-risen moon filtered into the room, making everything colourless and pale. Something struck Harry in that moment. The room was full of things the Dursleys didn't want – Dudley's broken toys, the small table Uncle Vernon's brother had given them, the battered chair which had once been part of a set of four in the dining room, but had been relegated to this room after the other three were broken. And he himself, just like everything else in the room was something the Dursleys had rejected.

Harry sighed and turned over again, to face the wall. It was less complicated; empty, unadorned white paint. He closed his eyes, pulling the covers closer around him, and tried to sleep. 

_Knock. Knock_.

The sudden noise made Harry's eyes fly open, and he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and looking around with a frown. The patterns of moonlight across the floor had changed, and he realised he must have dozed off. Had he only dreamt the noise, then? Or was it…

'Harry? Are you there?'

The voice startled him, and he grabbed his wand reflexively. It had been a female voice, not Aunt Petunia's, not anyone's that he recognised. But a Death Eater wouldn't knock before coming in. Neither would a burglar. 

'Who's there?' he called out.

'It's me,' the voice came back, 'Tonks. So you _are_ there, then? Hurry up and let me in.'

Harry heaved a sigh of relief, immediately followed by a surge of alarm. The only reason Tonks would be here would be to take him back to the Order, something he had been alternately dreading and wishing for. He had wanted it because it would mean a return to the people who cared for him, somewhere he could be surrounded by friends rather than enemies. He had dreaded it because it would mean having to deal with anxious questions, worried expressions, and Sirius' house with no Sirius in it. 

'Hurry up, boy,' came another gruff voice that Harry had no difficulty in placing: Mad Eye Moody. 'We're working with a time limit here.'

Harry slowly slid out of bed; thankful that he'd not bothered to change into his pyjamas earlier. Crossing the floor swiftly, he opened the door onto the landing, the light outside causing him to screw his eyes up against the sudden brightness.

When his eyes adjusted enough to see, he could make out Tonks standing directly in front of the door, looking at him with a curious and slightly worried expression. Harry looked away sharply, not particularly wanting to meet her eyes. He knew she, like everyone else, would be worried about how he was coping with Sirius' death. He knew she'd be full of pity and sympathy and… and he didn't want any of it. Not from people who couldn't understand.

'Come on, come on,' growled Moody, 'we haven't got all day. Got your wand, I see? Good, good, you should always be prepared. Constant vigilance! Now, where are your things?'

Harry glanced upwards at Moody, strangely gladdened by his no-nonsense attitude. Acting as though everything were normal. It helped a little. 'All my things are in my room,' he replied levelly. 'It won't take me long to get them together. I assume we're going to the Order? And was it you who gave the Dursleys those cinema tickets?'

'Better than a lawn competition.' Tonks replied. 'We've got a Portkey set up this time. We can make much better travel arrangements now we don't have to keep the Order a secret from the Ministry. Though we need to keep an eye on the clock. The Portkey's got a time limit on it, there's a very narrow slot for it to work in – security, you understand Moody insisted, in case we were both suddenly murdered by Death Eaters between stepping out of the front door and touching the Portkey.' She laughed a little, with a teasing glance at Moody, before looking back to Harry. 'Come on, then, I'll help you pack.'

Harry nodded, turning and walking back into his room, followed by Tonks. Moody waited in the doorway, keeping an eye on a completely normal Muggle clock, which Harry assumed to be the Portkey. There were very few things that weren't already packed away in his trunk – some clothes, his birthday cards, some quills and parchment and a book or two that lay untouched on the table. It took about a minute for Harry and Tonks to check the room for anything that might have been missed, whereupon Moody announced that there were five minutes left before the return Portkey became active.

Harry perched on his bed, leaning against the wall, and waited. Tonks and Moody had a brief conversation in hushed tones by the door, which Harry ignored, preferring instead to think about the implications of going back to the Order…

The bed sank next to him, and Harry opened his eyes to see Tonks sitting beside him, giving him a soft smile. Sympathy. Just what he didn't want.

'Hey, Harry,' she spoke, 'I was just wondering if you're feeling okay. You look a little pale…'

At least she was direct about it. 'I'm fine,' Harry said firmly. 'I'm completely fine.'

She snorted. 'Harry, you've less meat on you than a vegan salad, you look like you haven't seen sunlight in years, and you…'

'I am _fine._' Harry interrupted her firmly. 'I'm completely, one-hundred-percent sure that I am _fine_.'

Tonks sighed, tucking her feet up onto the bed, so that she was hugging her knees to her chest. Her face became more serious. 'Well, I'm glad you're coming back to the Order, anyway,' she said. 'It can't be good for you, having to cope with… what happened…'

'Sirius's death.' Harry said shortly, irrationally annoyed. Did they think that by skirting around the topic they'd make him feel any better? 

'Having to cope with Sirius' death on your own,' Tonks finished. 'Plus, I think you'll make everyone back at the Order feel a lot better too… especially Remus. He's been…' She sighed. 'Not good, but you'll make things better for him. I could tell you feel a little reluctant about going back – it was written all over your face. But you needn't feel like that. It's really all for the best.'

Harry's stomach clutched into knots of cold guilt at the mention of Lupin. The only Marauder left – discounting the treacherous Wormtail, of course. And Harry knew exactly why Lupin was depressed. Sirius had been the only one of his friends left. And now Sirius was dead. 

'I don't see why Lupin would be pleased to see me,' Harry said in a low, dark tone, 'when it was my fault that Sirius died.'

He heard her gasp of surprise. 'Harry, why… what on earth makes you think he'd blame you?' Tonks asked incredulously. 'None of what happened was your fault, Sirius…'

Moody's rough voice cut into the conversation. 'It's almost time.'

With a sigh, Tonks was cut off. Harry stood and grabbed his trunk, not looking upwards, churning inside with a bitter cocktail of feelings. Guilt and pain and anger and misery.

Moody offered him the Portkey, and he took it with his free hand, noting that the long, thin second hand was ticking closer and closer to the ornate figure twelve at the top of the clock's face. Eleven, ten, nine…

Tonks came up behind him, placing her own hand along with Harry's and Moody's on the Portkey, and whispered in Harry's ear, 'It wasn't your fault. You're not to blame for any of it.'

His mouth tightened in anger – couldn't she see that it had all been his fault, his own reckless stupidity that had got Sirius killed and all his friends in danger? – but before he could do anything, the familiar sensation of Portkey travel came upon him, and in a brief second they were standing in a secluded road in the middle of London.

~*~

Ginny was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, twisting a glossy red strand of hair around her finger as she watched Hermione hovering agitatedly in the hallway.

'…And I don't know whether we should try to act like everything's normal or not, because if we do and he wants to talk about it he'll feel like he's not supposed to and that could end up with him repressing his feelings, and then…'

'Hermione, calm down!' Ron stopped her firmly in mid-babble, grabbing her wrists. 'At least breathe more often, you're making me light headed just listening to you.'

'I know, I know, but what do we _say_?' Hermione looked desperate. 'I mean, anything we mention might just make it worse, and there's no knowing what things we should avoid, and how will we know whether he's okay or not, and…'

This time, Ginny cut her off. 'Hermione, stop worrying about it,' she ordered sharply. 'It's Harry, remember? Something will make him explode, certainly, but that's just something you have to avoid as much as possible and then cope with when it happens. You're acting as though he's going to crawl into a hole and die somewhere if you say the slightest thing wrong! He's an incredibly strong, brave person, Hermione. He'll get through it fine.'

Ginny's speech seemed to fortify Hermione; she drew herself upright, took a breath, and said, 'Yes. Thanks. You're right; I'm just getting too worked up about it. He'll be fine, I'm sure… eventually.' She sighed deeply, then rocked backwards onto the balls of her feet, looking at the clock, and added impatiently, 'Oh, _when _will he be here?'

Ginny let Ron take over the task of keeping Hermione calm, knowing from experience how comforting her older brothers could be if you were upset. She leaned her head against the banisters, the hard lumps of the elegantly carved wood pressing hard against her skull, and went back to her thoughts.

_He's an incredibly brave, strong person…_ It was something she'd always seen in him. Well, perhaps she exaggerated there. As with all wizarding children, her first knowledge of him had been as the Boy-Who-Lived, defeater of Voldemort. Almost a legend, another fairy-tale her parents used to get her to sleep. All the more enticing for its reality, to know that somewhere out there, the little boy with a scar on his forehead was growing up…

And then Ron had gone to Hogwarts, and the Boy Who Lived, figure of legend, had become Harry Potter, the dark-haired, green-eyed friend of her brother's. Ginny's ears reddened when she remembered her first year – her crush on Harry, which Ron still taunted her about sometimes, had been quite silly when she remembered it. And after… after Tom, and the Chamber…

She still didn't like to think of that, all these years later. Instead, she thought back over the things she'd begun, slowly, to discover about Harry. How his window had been barred and his door locked when Ron and the twins rescued him from the Dursleys. The way he always appeared thinner when he arrived in the summer holidays than when she'd last seen him at Hogwarts. And things she'd heard from her mum, or Ron, or Hermione: things about cupboards under stairs with locks on the door, about an aunt who detested magic in any form, about an uncle who wanted him to be miserable and a spoilt, bullying cousin.

Which was unthinkable, to Ginny, who had grown up surrounded by loving parents and a gaggle of older brothers to tease, care for and play with her. While Harry, to put it bluntly, had been locked in a cupboard.

Long after she'd matured enough for any romantic feelings towards him to wear off completely, _that_ had remained: a sense of… respect, or even awe, that anyone could come through a childhood like that and still be warm and friendly and caring, still be brave and strong, still have the ability to fight against the Darkest of wizards. Ginny knew what Voldemort was like, knew what it took to face up to him, and she admired Harry for that. 

And now there was the sound of a knock on a door, and Moody's harsh voice rasping something, and Hermione jumped a little with tension, cried, 'He's here!' and dashed to the door, closely pursued by Ron.

The door was opened, revealing Mad Eye Moody standing squarely on the doorstep, Tonks just visible over his shoulder, and in front of him, in front stood Harry.

He was pale, and thin, as Ginny had expected, his face more pinched than last time she'd seen him, and dark shadows marring the skin under his eyes. But he was looking upwards, smiling slightly as Hermione promptly hugged him tightly and Ron grinned brightly, welcoming him back. His eyes, Ginny noted, had a haunted look about them, a kind of darkness at the edge of the green. But there was also a spark there, and a warmth in his tone as he greeted his friends, and that, if nothing else, proved he would be alright.

'You're not in the same room as before, all that section's gone to temporary accommodation for Order members, we're in a different bit now.' Hermione was gabbling as she tugged Harry inside. 'And we've been doing so much cleaning it's been insane, really, I've barely had time…'

'Hermione? Remember what I said about breathing?' Ron asked.

Moody tugged Harry's trunk inside, closing the door behind himself and Tonks, watching the scene with his magical eyeball spinning wildly, fixed on the kitchen door. 'Look out, here comes Molly…' he muttered.

As promised, Mrs Weasley burst through the kitchen door, flour settling in her hair, beaming brighter than a sunbeam. 'Harry! You're here!' she cried, before enveloping him in a bone crunching hug. 'We're having tea soon, I'm making plenty, I know you must be hungry…'

'Thanks, Mrs Weasley.'  Harry replied politely, with another smile, which elicited a further sparkling, shining grin from the woman in question.

Everyone, Ginny could see, was overjoyed to have Harry back – including herself, of course. Thinking this, she chimed in with her own greeting, 'Hey, Harry.' Which caused him to look over, give her another one of the weak, vague smiles, before getting drawn away by a question from Ron. Moody nodded to everyone, before deciding that his mission was completed, and leaving through one of the doors to the left.

Ginny drifted off a little, after that, her thoughts wandering into a contemplation of what could happen next. Harry, judging by his outburst after Cedric's death last year, would probably explode a good few times in the course of getting back to normal. Probably he'd end up fighting with Malfoy. Perhaps they should convince him to leave his wand behind whenever they'd be near Malfoy, which would at least stop Harry getting in trouble with the Ministry for even more underage magic…

Slowly, Ginny realised that the room in front of her had fallen silent. She looked up, frowning, and the reason became clear.

Lupin had walked in, and now stood rather awkwardly by the door, a mug of tea in his hand, looking worn and anxious. Harry, near the middle of the hallway, had his arms folded defensively and his head turned away, an expression on his face that Ginny could easily place: guilt. She quickly figured it out. Sirius had been Lupin's best friend, and Harry must blame himself for the death. He felt guilty about it, certainly. Guilty for causing Lupin pain.

'Harry…' It was Lupin's voice, wavering, frail, unsure. 'Harry, I don't blame you.'

There was silence. Ginny saw Harry's face tense, and then slacken, the skin as pale and thin as paper that would tear with but a little effort. He had never seemed so fragile.

'It… It was my fault. It was _all_ my fault.'

His voice was low, lower than normal, and laced with something dangerous, something fearful and dark. And for a moment he could have been Tom, standing in the Chamber – because Tom had suffered too – but the moment passed, leaving just a cold shiver on Ginny's spine and tension in the air.

Harry moved first. Turning, he blindly ran for the stairs, so that Ginny had to squash herself against the banister as he thundered past for fear of being trampled on. Ron and Hermione ran after him, calling, 'Harry!' as Lupin's eyes darkened, closed with despair.

Tonks came to his rescue, with a smile and a friendly hand on his shoulder, as the thundering footsteps from above died away. 'Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. Harry's been through a lot, you know, and I really think that with time…' she chattered gently, steering a passive Lupin through one of the side doors into a sitting room, her speech lost as she shut the door behind her.

Mrs Weasley sighed, and Ginny looked up the stairs. 'I should go after them. Help, if I can,' she said, getting to her feet. Her mother nodded.

'Hermione will be in a state,' she said morosely. 'And Ron won't know what to do. And Harry… I worry about that boy.' She shook her head. 'Back to the kitchen for me. Do the best you can,' she instructed her daughter with a fond smile, before returning to the kitchen.

Slowly, Ginny rose to her feet, turning and walking upstairs. As she turned, something – someone – caught her eye. Looking up, to the place where the banister at the top met the wall after encircling the stairwell, she saw an annoyingly familiar figure. Monochromatic, otherworldly, Draco Malfoy was standing above it all, watching the goings-on below him with a slightly puzzled expression.

Her eye caught his; he sneered briefly at her, before shifting his gaze to a spot in the middle of the hall, as if trying to figure something out. Ginny shuddered. It was creepy, having him up there, watching everything like some kind of inverted guardian angel. Turning, she ran up the stairs, leaving the empty hall below her. Now, to find the others…

~*~

Draco kept his eyes fixed on the hallway a long time after all activity had ceased, thinking. Potter was here. Another enemy to add to the list of people he was forced to live with. People who hated him, people he hated… or he assumed he hated them. He had pretended to hate them, back when everything was simpler. Now he didn't know.

He had shouted at that Weasley, though – Ginny? Yes, that was it. After she'd been asking questions about why he was there. Of course, that secret should be kept hidden at all costs from everyone but the select few who _had_ to know about it, but he had no idea why the act of asking about it had caused him to react so… explosively. He was assuming that emotion to be anger.

What was there about that scenario that had caused anger, then? A simple question, that was all – annoying and difficult to fend off, perhaps, but no more than that. Not even an insult. And there had been plenty of other worse things that day which could have made him snap – that fat Weasley woman giving him the burnt toast, for example, and making him help with cleaning like a common house elf. In fact, he'd been feeling a negative emotion – hate, anger, annoyance, pain, he didn't know – for most of that day. So what about that particular scene had made him react as he had?

Muttering a curse word under his breath, he leaned back against the wall, tilting his head upwards and closing his eyes. All this could be so much easier if he didn't have to be here. If he didn't have to be surrounded with Scarface, Weasel and the Mudblood. What ridiculous names, he mused. So childish, but that was part of his role, wasn't it? Only he didn't know what his role was now. He had no role. He didn't understand this new self.

If only someone could help him figure it all out. After all, practically everyone else on the planet had felt emotions from birth. Any idiot on the street could tell him which of two emotions was which. But here, he had no one but enemies, none of whom he particularly wished to explain his problems to. 

Besides, everyone here was absorbed by their precious Potter, who had so many _issues_ after his dear godfather died that he had to be wrapped in tissue paper as though made from glass. While he was struggling to get his head around what was basically an entirely new mind, a new self, and what did he get? Treated like some dangerous criminal, hated and suspected.

It made one of those damned emotions sizzle in his chest again. This one was… Painful. When his Fallen side was dominant, he hadn't realised that emotions could actually _hurt_. Like a dull needle poked through the chest. And then an uncomfortable feeling, everything tight and clenched, coiled up tight around the needle, driving its point in further.

He stood upright, shaking his head. This was useless; he'd never figure anything out standing here, and besides, he was tired. Sleep would be a good idea; and perhaps in the morning some of these emotions would be clearer.

Turning, he returned to his room.

~*~

**A/N:** Reviews would make me happy. Very happy. Ecstatically-bouncing-on-the-bed-with-glee happy. Spread some happiness. Go on.

And as for next Friday? Yes, another chapter – with an intriguing development if all goes to plan. See you in another week, and in the meantime, you know what to do. Review!


	6. The Meaning Of Morality

**Chapter 5: The Meaning Of Morality**

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter, I would be an incredibly rich, famous author. If I were an incredibly rich, famous author, I'd be living in a huge mansion with all my betas and other miscellaneous friends, indulging myself in eccentricity; with rooms I'd decorated myself that would put Lawrence Llewellen-Bowen of the ridiculous surname to shame, constant supplies of Dr. Pepper and marzipan, storerooms full of chicken kievs, chips and profiteroles, a massive swimming pool complete with waterslides, and a lot of other things that I'll leave out because it would take too long to describe them all.

However, I'm still living in a little house in an industrial suburb. Thus, we can deduce that I don't own Harry Potter.****

**Thanks for 109 reviews goes to:** Saotoshi, jules37, mesmer (x2), Simpson-Girl, simrun, luckdragon, willowfairy, Beauty Full, Heather, Angel, Pheonix, girliedragon, heavengurl899, PinkTribeChick!

**A/N:** This was actually the most depressing week with regards to writing I've ever had.

Things pretty much started on Tuesday, when I took in the beta copy for the five betas at my school. One of my betas – whose usual method of betaing is 'crush it humorously into the ground' (which is usually incredibly useful, actually) decided to beta when she was in a bad mood, which resulted in severe crushing… On top of that, another beta, who's usually incredibly nice, decided to adopt a more crushing method.

Now I've never actually been very confident with writing – I still shy away from sharing it with anyone I know, though anonymous people in the Internet are fine. So the rather severe crushing, combined with the fact that I didn't get as many reviews as usual, combined with stress over my A-level choices (now changed to English Language, English Literature, Psychology and Biology) and an extremely determined Latin teacher who practically took to stalking me, combined with winter sore throat and sniffles, combined with a severely bruised and aching arm from my archery lesson… kind of led to a bit of a breakdown on Tuesday afternoon.

But don't worry; I'm pretty much better now, thanks to plot bunnies, reviewers, betas, extensive rewrites of one scene, and chocolate. And a massive thanks to all the reviewers of the last chapter – you really cheered me up when things were grim. I give you all chocolate.

Enough about me, anyway: I'm sure you're far more interested in this week's chapter! Which, after all that, has come out quite pleasingly. Oh! And before I forget to mention it; my Pi has given me the challenge of including a phrase of her choosing into every chapter. This week's was 'a severed hand'. I'm still arguing with her over next week's.

But back to this chapter: enjoy!

~*~

_It is with our passions, as it is with fire and water, they are good servants but bad masters. _

**_Aesop (620 BC - 560 BC)_**__

~*~

_A new and worrying trend has emerged among the medical staff employed at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, the latest wizarding census reveals today. For the first time in centuries, the majority of employees at the renowned wizarding hospital are from Muggle backgrounds – leaving those from magical families in the minority. _

_A spokesman for the hospital informed the Prophet that 'St Mungos selects its employees based purely on their suitability for the demanding role of a Healer, and regards their parentage as unimportant.'_

_Yet statistics show that Pureblood witches and wizards achieve better results in their OWLs and NEWTs, and furthermore…  **(continued on page 3)**_****

Hermione folded the Daily Prophet in half with a sigh, dropped it down beside her plate, and frowned. 

Most of the people sitting around the breakfast table that morning had read the article with similar frowns and grimaces, and followed it with worried discussions about the newspaper's attitude. The atmosphere was sombre and anxious, making everyone edgy.

It had been going on for quite some time, if you bothered to find back issues of the Prophet and read through them, combing carefully through the articles. It started over a year ago, shortly after the return of Voldemort, with carefully interwoven comments, jokes and observations. One of the newspaper's oldest comic strips – _'The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle'_ – had introduced a new character, a Muggleborn witch, in the previous October. The Muggleborn was a figure of fun: she had fallen in love with Martin, and kept attempting various spells to attract his attentions, which always went hilariously wrong.

Just an innocent comic strip? Hermione didn't think so.

You could see the comments growing in frequency and intensity as you tracked through the editions But now, they had thrown subtlety to the wind, publishing articles that never _quite_ said, 'Muggleborns are inferior,' never _quite_ stated anything solid, but implied it heavily all the same.

The worst part of the entire newspaper, for Hermione, was the letters page. She never even looked at it any more. If letters of outrage at the Prophet's attitude were written, they were never published; instead came humorous agreements with the paper's point of view, making their own sly comments about Muggleborns, their own cruel jibes. Lucius Malfoy in particular had written one that made Hermione's blood boil to read it, so full was it of carefully crafted implications and subtexts…

Ginny prodded her in the ribs. 'Hello? Ginny Weasley to Hermione Granger; do we have a Floo connection?'

Hermione blinked, startled out of her thoughts and confused by Ginny's phrasing. 'What? Floo?'

Ginny shook her head. 'I meant are you with us? You were staring at your plate. Letting your food go cold too. Terrible waste.'

'Oh. Sorry, my mind just wandered off for a minute there…' she trailed off with a glance at the newspaper. Ginny gave her a smile.

'The article? Don't worry; no one's going to believe that rubbish. Mum knows someone who works in the census office, and you know, the difference between Purebloods and Muggleborns is only about ten employees. It's ridiculous! Besides, who cares if Muggleborns outnumber Purebloods?'

'The Purebloods.' Hermione replied simply, taking a bite of her toast. 'And then they become prejudiced and insult Muggleborns and then they start attacking us in the streets, and the next thing you know we're all in concentration camps…'

'What?' Ginny asked, confused. 'Concentration camps?'

Hermione took a breath, calming down. 'Sorry. You know about Hitler and the Nazis? Germany? Second World War?'

'Oh, _those_ concentration camps.' Ginny realised, then snorted. 'You really think Muggleborns are going to end up being herded up and gassed to death? That would never happen.'

'Well, no one thought it would happen to the Jews either.' Hermione pointed out, fidgeting uncomfortably. 'And these methods of propaganda… influencing the media, things like comic strips for children, it's all the kind of thing the Nazis used. It scares me,' she admitted.

Ginny gave her a smile. 'It is kind of scary,' she agreed. 'But if anything like that happens, it's not going to be tomorrow. What's the use of worrying about it now? All we can do is try to stop people getting prejudiced and wait. In the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry.'

Hermione smiled, and took another slice of her sausage. 'Thanks, Ginny. You're right: there's no use in worrying yet,' she agreed.

Ginny grinned, then turned around to speak to Harry, who was ploughing through a large plate of breakfast under the watchful eyes of Ron and Mrs Weasley. Every so often, Harry would stop eating, distracted by thought, until one of the Weasleys gently brought him back to reality. 

Harry. Another thing she had to worry about, Hermione thought as she nibbled at her toast. After running off the previous night following the little scene with Lupin (who wasn't at breakfast this morning; neither was Tonks), Hermione had fully expected her friend to explode in anger, grief or possibly self-hatred.

When they'd caught up with him in a dingy corridor, however, he had been leaning on the wall, breathing deeply, his face firm and set. Whatever they asked or said or did, he'd insisted that he was completely fine, that it had just been a momentary thing and it was all done with now. The edge his voice took on after a few questions had warned them not to carry on asking.

They'd met up with Ginny in one of the corridors, and the four of them had gone to Hermione's room – the largest and neatest – to talk. Hermione had been too anxious to say anything, fidgeting nervously, and although Ron kept trying to strike up conversations, he could never quite think of a topic. Harry had been worryingly silent and remote. 

Ginny had been brilliant: acting bright, cheerful and talkative. She'd got them all playing Exploding Snap, and chattered non-stop about anything under the sun, until her friendly, warm and open air infected the others and they began to relax. Harry even smiled, and had laughed a little at one of Ron's ruder jokes. Though it had all been temporary, it seemed. Hermione hadn't expected anything different.

They'd told Harry everything they knew about recent events: the worrying portrayal of Muggleborns in the media, the actions and happenings of the Order, the arrival of Malfoy. He'd barely reacted. He appeared to be numb: no matter what happened he barely reacted, barely paid any attention. Except for that moment last night with Lupin. It worried Hermione: it couldn't be good for him.

Ginny poked her. 'You've drifted off again,' she scolded gently. 'And we've got to go now, Mum says. More cleaning.' She grimaced.

Hermione nodded, taking a final bite of her toast and chewing it slowly, a dismal, dreary feeling settling over her. At the other end of the table, a distinctly irate Malfoy was finishing his breakfast, scowling as he did so. Hermione looked between him and Harry, who was staring at the tablecloth with a desolate expression, and despaired. It would be impossible to keep Malfoy from snapping at Harry, completely impossible, with the mood he was in. She only hoped Harry could weather the storm.

~*~

The odour of decay was slowly giving way to one almost as foul: the artificial, acrid scent of the cleaning sprays. The air in the bathroom was thick with smells, heavy and sickeningly oppressive. Tension and anxiety held sway, as Gryffindor glared at Slytherin, friend worried over friend, enemy glowered at enemy.

Mrs Weasley broke the silence first, getting to her feet, stretching, checking her watch. She threw a glare at Malfoy, then turned to the Gryffindors and asked, 'Do you mind if I leave you for a while? Dumbledore's called a meeting of the Order, and I ought to be there.'

'How long will you be?' asked Ginny, with a meaningful glance at the corner where the Slytherin worked, alone.

'An hour at most, I'll try and get away before then, though. Behave yourselves,' she told them with a smile, and left.

The charged silence returned, expectant and heavy, hanging thickly over the room. In one corner was Malfoy, angrily scrubbing at a patch of mouldy floor, his grey eyes a mystery; hot and cold together, as though fire froze or ice burnt. Below, his lips were set in a thin line, straight and unyielding.

On the opposite side of the room, they were working on the walls. The atmosphere around them had a slightly different flavour: while just as charged with an impending fight, it was infused with something else, gentler, but by no means lesser than the antagonism it resided with. It was present in careful, fretful glances in the direction of Harry, where he worked seemingly without thinking, just blank repetition of a single process. Worried looks laced themselves through the air, until anxiety was in every breath they took.

It would take very little, now, for this atmosphere to snap, and release all its deadly charge in moments, in a lightening flash of fury.

Ten minutes after Mrs Weasley's departure, Malfoy dropped his empty spray bottle with a soft thunk, and a disgusted sneer crossed his lips as he surveyed the floor before him. Very little impression had been made on the mould, no matter how hard he tried to remove it.

Getting to his feet, he turned, eyeing the box of cleaning products that was dumped near the Gryffindors. There had to be something stronger than this rubbish in there, surely? Grabbing the empty bottle, he strode over, making strangely little sound on the hard tiles.

Kneeling down by the side of the box, he surveyed the bottles with a mixture of confusion and contempt. Contempt because this kind of work was for house elves, not Malfoys, and confusion for much the same reason. His exposure to cleaning solutions up to this point had been extremely limited. Looking through the bottles suspiciously, he began to read the product descriptions on the bright, eye-catching labels.

Five minutes later, just as he'd read the final bottle and decided on '_New and Improved Disapparate! For all your cleaning needs_', he saw a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye. Pretending to read the description of a random bottle, he watched cautiously as Granger detached herself from her friends, crossed the few steps to the box, and knelt down on the opposite side to himself. Her eyes peered cautiously at him, a deep fiery brown, before turning to the box.

She didn't take long to choose. Within seconds, she had selected and retrieved from the box the exact same bottle that Malfoy had earlier decided on.

Quick as a snake's bite, he'd grabbed her wrist tightly, wrenching the bottle away from her with his free hand. 'I suggest you pick another one, _Mudblood_,' he spat, eyes narrowed, 'This one is mine.'

She gave him a defiant look, trying to grab the bottle back, but he held it well out of her reach. Finally, she resorted to insults. 'I'm surprised you even know how to clean, Malfoy. I'd expected you to run out screaming after the first five minutes and go crying to your daddy, because the mean nasty people made you do work for once in your life instead of lazing around and bullying everyone.'

He smirked. 'Oh, the temptation to run screaming from this place is overwhelming, I assure you. I'm surrounded by idiots and filthy freaks of nature such as yourself. But it should be obvious to you that I'd be capable of cleaning, Granger. After all, if the dirty Muggles can do it, a Pureblooded wizard like myself should find it child's play.'

'Stop insulting Hermione.' This was Ron, cutting into the argument sharply, already turning red with anger. He stood up, eyes flashing, and glared boldly at the Slytherin. 'Or you'll regret it.'

'I'd do what he says. He means it,' Ginny chimed in cheekily, looking at the scene from her place on the floor. On Ron's other side, Harry had paused in his cleaning to watch, green eyes almost blank but for a little worry, or anger, or hate.

Malfoy grinned, sensing an imminent exchange of insults building up. He shifted backwards from a kneeling position, crossing his legs, and smirking upwards at Ron.

'Ah, Weasley,' he grinned. 'Another one of those inferior beings whose sole purpose in life is work like this.' He indicated the bathroom with a sweeping gesture. 'Cleaning. Cooking. The kinds of things house elves do. Ideally, we should round you and all the Muggles up in cages, brand numbers into your flesh, and keep you as slaves. It's what your existence is all about. Admit it.'

He watched the effect his words had on the others with a soft, smug smile. Beautiful. The way you could make someone act a certain way, feel a certain thing, just by saying a few words! Granger was practically smoking at the ears – particularly incensed after reading this morning's article. Weasley was bright red with anger, and a grim-faced Ginny had grabbed tight hold of his hand, presumably to stop him lunging forward to fight. Weasley seemed to have gotten better at controlling his anger, Malfoy mused. Pity.

Then his eyes came to rest upon Potter, and frowned. Though Harry's eyes were narrowed, cold, there was still a passive glaze to them. He was irritated, but not fully angry: too detached from the world to be angry. Malfoy, however, knew just what had caused this – and how to break it.

'If you really believe that,' Granger began, her voice quivering, but Malfoy paid no attention, 'then you're a foul, imbecilic, idiotic, narrow-minded, intolerant prat! I can't believe…'

Malfoy cut across her rant. 'Not leaping to your little Mudblood friend's defence, Potter?' he asked. 'Strange, I thought you always did. You certainly leapt to your dear godfather's defence, didn't you?'

Harry froze: from the look in his eyes, Malfoy knew he'd hit the right nerve. 'Don't talk about that.' Harry commanded in a tight, tense voice. The air was charged, apprehensive.

Ron and Hermione had both frozen at Malfoy's change in tactics and were stood stock still, staring at Harry.  Ginny turned towards Malfoy. 'Leave Harry alone,' she began, but Malfoy was too quick for her.

'Of course, you just ended up getting him killed, didn't you?' he asked, relaxing in the furious expressions of those around him. This was something familiar in the midst of confusion, something he understood. 'You just went along and charged off recklessly, and got your dear Sirius Black killed. Of course, he was just as stupid as you. Running after you, straight into the line of fire, it's no wonder he got himself murdered. A perfect pair you make – or rather, _made_. Both as stupid as the other.'

There was a moment of pure, beautiful silence, the shock almost palpable, the disbelief that he could have said such a thing lacing the air – then Harry was on his feet, all detachedness vanished, eyes blazing with green flame, so hot and so angry that Malfoy started in surprise.

Ron and Ginny grabbed tight hold of Harry before he could move an inch, Ginny shrieking for him to calm down, Ron swearing foully at Malfoy. Hermione scrambled to her feet and raced over, putting a hand on the struggling Harry's shoulder, trying to soothe him.

Malfoy sat there, watching, his eyes locked on Harry's. He felt strangely alarmed, not by the fact that Potter was attempting to kill him, but more by the hate and the anger and the pure, boiling rage. All things he himself had felt, now. Or thought he'd felt. He still couldn't be completely sure…

And he had made Potter feel that way. Something he'd done many times before, but this time… _this_ time he could understand it more, could grasp in some way what it must be like to be Potter, in this moment, with those burning, angry eyes. It was strange, unbearably strange, and he shuddered. All kinds of responses kept firing off, emotional things that he had no knowledge of, dizzying in their variety.

And then, the Weasleys and Granger finally got Potter to sit down, gasping in deep breaths as though he'd just been rescued from drowning, and leaving Malfoy more confused than ever.

Granger glanced up from her friend as the two Weasleys tried to ensure he was alright – already Harry was insisting forcibly that he was fine. But Granger's eyes flashed like lightening, and in a low tone she spat, 'I hope you're happy, you _bastard_.'

He smirked – playing his role again – and replied, 'Of course. I've insulted and hurt a bunch of Muggle-loving filth: what's not to be happy about?'

Snatching up the spray bottle of cleaning solution that lay, forgotten, by his side, he stood and crossed the room briskly, back to his corner. As he went back to grudgingly cleaning the tiles, he frowned. 

Why had angering Potter felt so… wrong?

~*~

It was evening.

The sun was almost setting outside his window, the sky just beginning to colour with the shades of sunset. Draco knew that downstairs dinner would soon be ready. The smell of it was already creeping through the rooms, coiling under his door. Smells were so much stronger as a human. Idly, he wondered why.

It was, more than anything else, a way to distract himself from thinking about the earlier fight. It had been fun at first. Riling everyone up, watching their feelings flash across their faces, watching them react… But then, Potter.

Potter had been angry. No, no, it wasn't the anger, it was…the hurt. That was it. Potter had looked… tortured, even. Anguished. So what? What did he, a Malfoy, care about people feeling hurt? Especially Potter.

Except that obviously, it did mean something to him, because he couldn't get rid of the niggling feeling that he had done something _wrong_. And yet he didn't see why that had happened in one situation and not the others. He'd insulted all of them. Why feel worse about one than the others?

Because those insults had caused more hurt than the others. Hadn't they?

Draco sighed and crossed to the mirror, to examine his face. He'd come to realise that, often, he could better name the emotions when he read his facial expression. But this time, all he could see was confusion and puzzlement.

'Heya, gorgeous,' the mirror chimed in. 'Looking good. Why the long face?'

Draco shook his head. 'Nothing,' he said automatically, noticing a patch of messy hair and reaching up to straighten it. He paused. 'Do you… do mirrors feel emotions at all?'

It laughed. 'Course we don't have feelings, we're _mirrors_. We can, however, offer fashion advice, Agony Aunt services, and various other tricks. I do a brilliant impression of Celestina Warbeck, wanna hear?'

'No, thanks,' Draco replied, finishing with his hair. 'Only… you know when people feel… when people do something bad, then they get this feeling that it was wrong. Does that have a name?'

The mirror chuckled. 'Why, that's a conscience, sweetie.'

'Oh.' He frowned. Well, that could explain a lot… only why would insulting Potter make his, his _conscience_ come into play? It made no sense whatsoever. 'Well, thanks.'

'Anytime,' the mirror replied. 'Oooh, before you go, do that trick with the wings? Please?'

'That trick with the wings?'

'Oh, go on, please!' it begged. 'I've never seen anyone with wings before. Well, you don't get many, do you, love? And they are gorgeous… all white and feathery…'

Draco gave the mirror a sceptical look, before giving in to its request. 'Alright then, but I'm not doing this every time you ask, okay? I'm not some performing animal.' Glancing sideways to make sure his door was shut, he pulled off his shirt, not wanting it to tear, and with a flicker of thought…

'Oooh!' went the mirror, sounding delighted. 'You should go around like that all the time, you look dead sexy with your top off and all the feathers…'

'Thanks,' Draco replied, feeling slightly bemused. 'I'll remember that in-'

A horrified gasp rang sharply from the doorway, cutting him off in mid-sentence. He swivelled, stomach twisting, turning back to human form with a brief thought…

And standing in the open doorway, eyes wide and staring, was Hermione Granger.

'W-wings!' she gasped. 'You had _wings_!'

There was a feeling, like a clammy fist had just clenched itself inside his chest, and inside his head he swore violently. What sick twist of fate had thrown this in his path? Damn it, why did she have to see this, why was it Granger of all people who had to wander in at that precise moment? The rising emotion – something hot and violent – alarmed him in its intensity, and Draco quickly tried to suppress it.

And Granger was still gaping.

He decided to react calmly, playing it cool. . 'Full marks for observation, Granger,' he drawled, leaning against the wall. 'Did you want something? Other than to ogle my god-like form, obviously.'

That seemed to snap her out of her shock; she spluttered, appearing extremely flustered. 'I was not ogling!' she protested.

'Really? It looked that way from here.'

'I would never ogle your scrawny, pale, ugly self if you _paid_ me to do it!' To which Draco simply smirked, feeling somewhat back on safer ground. He was a Malfoy; he had an annoyed Gryffindor in his presence. That he could cope with.

Granger took a breath, trying to calm herself. 'I was sent to tell you it's time for tea,' she informed him. 'And before you tell me off for coming in without knocking, all the rooms round here are soundproofed, they were used as guest rooms a few decades ago. And I do not ogle. Now that's out of the way, would you mind explaining exactly why you had wings? You obviously didn't Transfigure yourself, as there's a distinct lack of Ministry owls bearing warnings.' Her eyes narrowed.

'I don't appear to owe you any explanations, Granger. What I do is my own private business,' he said smoothly. 

'I could tell Dumbledore-'

'He knows.' Draco interrupted. 'And obviously, had he deemed it necessary for you to know, he would have informed you. You're slipping, Granger – seems like there's information Dumbledore doesn't trust you with. And here I was thinking you had all the staff wrapped round your little finger…'

'What on earth are you drivelling about, Malfoy?' she snapped crossly.

'Why, I thought you were the teacher's pet. The perfect one they trusted implicitly, the prefect, Head-Girl to be…' he trailed off. 'Yet Dumbledore doesn't see fit to inform you of things like this?'

She shook her head. 'No, the… No one who isn't an Order member can be told important information pertaining to the war, and we're still too young to join,' she said, adding swiftly, 'But I'm going to join as soon as I'm old enough.'

'Of course, I would have expected nothing less from Little Miss Perfect,' he said silkily. 'Now leave, if you'd be so kind as to remove your filthy Mudblood self from my room.'

She glared. 'Don't you dare call me that, Malfoy!' she spat. 'Don't you dare.'

'Threatening me?' he asked with a cheeky smile. 'And what will you do to me, exactly, Granger? We can't use magic here.'

She gave a hard smile. 'Oh, I'm sure I can think of something, or have you forgotten that time I slapped you in third year? And, in case you've forgotten, I still want an explanation.'

'Tough. You don't always get what you want, Granger. _Mudblood_.' He savoured the word in his mouth like rich chocolate or a fine red wine, letting it slide off his tongue, delighting in the look on Granger's face as her eyes narrowed and cheeks tinged, her stance became more rigid, tense.

'I said not to call me that, Malfoy.'

'Why not, Mudblood?'

'Because its _wrong_!' she half shouted, eyes suddenly bright, face contorting with… pain? 'It's wrong, and cruel, and horrible, and it just makes people prejudiced against Muggleborns without thinking, because they hear someone else call us rude words and they get the idea it's alright and…' She ran out of steam, gulping down a deep breath, quivering slightly.

Draco frowned. Of course it was wrong, that was the whole point of doing it… when he'd been Fallen. And as a human? He didn't know, but that part of him the mirror had identified as a conscience was speaking up again, suggesting things, making him feel… guilt, regret, what? And he hated it.

'Just go already!' he snapped. 'Leave! Get out of here! I'm sick of the sight of you.'

She crossed her arms defiantly. 'Why? Because of my _parents_?'

'Because I _hate_ you. Because you're the most infuriatingly brainless freak of nature I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Go!'

She stood her ground, opening her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out Draco crossed the room to her in three swift strides. With lightening speed, he grabbed her right hand and twisted it round, forcing her arm up against her back, almost at breaking point. She cried out as he spun her round and practically threw her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

He turned back to the room, leaning on the door, simmering inside with residual feelings. Draco didn't attempt to analyse them, knowing it would do no good; instead, he waited a minute until the heated, burning, powerful sensation subsided.

It was replaced by other things. A weight settled in his stomach, heavy and burdensome, making him fidget and squirm. It felt as though it were curled around his intestines, coiling everything into weird and uncomfortable shapes.

'Looks like you're suffering conscience troubles again, sweetheart,' the mirror said in a low tone. 'Gosh, that was explosive…'

He ignored it. On a sudden impulse, he wrenched the door open and stepped outside, looking for Granger. He didn't know why, or what he wanted with her. But it didn't matter anyway, for she was gone.

He leant beside an old portrait – one of the Black ancestors holding what looked disturbingly like a severed hand – and frowned in confusion. Why on earth did feelings have to be so _difficult?_

~*~

**A/N:** Thanks for reading, everyone! Now, please, please review? Think of the poor writer's weak, fragile confidence. Cyropi's confidence needs YOU!


	7. Mirror's Story

**Chapter 6: Mirror's Story**

**Disclaimer:** You know, if I had long enough, I could probably construct an argument to the effect that, according to the nature of space and time, the infinite dimensions of reality and mathematical probability, it is actually impossible to be certain that I am not J.K.Rowling. But I can't be bothered. Thus, I'm not J.K.Rowling, and don't own Harry Potter.

**Thanks for 140 reviews goes to:** lade dah, Simpson-Girl, Sor079(x2), Paganicewand, jules37, Beauty Full, Angel, girliedragon, Flexi Lexi, taragoddess, Stefy, Hp1fan, no name, simrun, bibleeohfile, Kippen, willowfairy, Chiinoyami-chan, DracMione, Celestial Eclipse, mesmer, Pheonix, Saotoshi, heavengurl899, Ms. Lit, PinkTribeChick, Plaidly Lush, Go10(x3)

**A/N:** I really, really have to thank everyone who reviewed last chapter a million times over. While my writing was back to normal last week, my life took a rather nasty twist… Exactly seven years ago this very day, I met a boy called Joshua, when he transferred to my school. We became friends. He was my first crush, the first person to completely shatter my heart into tiny splinters, and later on, my friend again. Until about six months ago, when we simply began to drift apart. Basically, we no longer have anything in common, he keeps trying to make me be someone I'm not, and last Monday it culminated in a screaming row (though all the screaming was on my part) and we've not spoken since.

In a way, I'm glad it's over, because it's been very stressful lately with all the arguments. Doesn't mean I didn't go through an extremely rough time emotionally, though thankfully as I was expecting it, I've gotten over it fairly quickly.

But, this is getting me away from my point, which is to say a huge thank you to everyone who left such positive, uplifting reviews for the last chapter. And also – according to my stats page, I'm on the favourite author list of 200 people! You guys are amazing, and you all really, really helped. Thanks so much, to all of you.

And so, without further preamble, onto the chapter. Enjoy.

~*~

_If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility._   
**_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_**

~*~

He was watching her. Not conspicuously, of course, because she'd be sure to notice if he stared directly at her throughout the meal. Carefully, by staring at a random point in the room while paying attention to her image on his peripheral vision, occasionally giving innocent glances in her direction.

Granger hadn't told anyone yet, mused Draco, but he wasn't certain how long that would remain true. After all, she was unlikely to blurt it out in the middle of a crowded dining room. But after dinner, talking to her annoying friends… she was almost certain to tell them what she'd seen. What he'd said. What he'd done.

Frowning, he took another spoonful of his soup – leek and potato, as far as he could tell – and once more cursed the entire range of sensations that these weak, pathetic, confused human minds termed 'emotions'. Especially this one called conscience. As a Fallen, he'd never have experienced any of these things after fighting with someone. It had been right to hurt people. That was what Fallens did. They had a deep, innate instinct to cause pain, and they followed it. It was simple.

But as a human, every single action produced some kind of feeling, and those feelings got mangled and mashed together until he wondered how humans could think straight without going completely insane. He couldn't even _eat soup_ without feeling something about it, for goodness' sake!

He'd pretty much given up trying to sort out the confusing, entangled threads of feeling connected with Granger's little discovery earlier. He'd reacted cruelly because it was the only way he knew how to react, the only way he'd ever reacted when the situation involved Mudbloods. But it seemed to spark off these huge, complex masses of feeling when he did that, which gave him a headache and an incredible sensation of wrongness that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. As though he'd swallowed a lead ball with spikes on, and it was entangling itself in his intestines.

Draco glanced up from his soup, only to catch Hermione staring thoughtfully at him, a frown on her face. He glared back out of habit: she frowned and turned to Weasley.

Things continued in much the same way for the next quarter of an hour. He continued to throw cautious glances in her direction, making sure that she didn't say anything about what she'd seen earlier to anyone, while wondering what to do. Obviously, he had to somehow procure a promise that she would keep it a secret – but for that he would need to either blackmail, threaten, or bargain with her. But he knew no intriguing secrets of hers, she would know that most of his threats would be impossible to carry out here, and what did he have to bargain with?

Occasionally she would look in his direction with a glare, or a puzzled expression, or unashamed curiosity, and then turn back to a conversation. Absentmindedly, she would rub her wrist as she talked. The wrist Draco had twisted behind her back in his fiery, thoughtless state. He frowned at that, feeling the painful sensation take another twist, and looked away.

He ate another mouthful of soup, but before he could take a second he found his thoughts wandering back to earlier events, his spoon swirling uselessly through the soup. It was impossible: how could he ever understand these strange feelings that never made any sense? He hated them and resented them, wishing he could just go back to the simplicity of a Fallen mind, but this damned human mind had too strong a survival instinct.

Sighing, Draco realised the heavy weight in his stomach had made him lose his appetite. He left the spoon in the bowl, and quickly exited the room without looking back.

~*~__

'Why the long face? A guy as handsome as you are doesn't have anything to mope about, sweetie.'

Draco shifted slightly from where he was lying on the bed to look over at the mirror through one eye, frowning. 'What?'

'You look like a kid whose toy broomstick just broke,' the mirror informed him. 'More conscience troubles?'

Draco turned onto his side, his eyes narrowing. It felt extremely strange, having this mirror instantly guess what was wrong with him. Almost as if something incredibly private had been scrutinised by some impassive, external thing… 'No.' Draco denied vehemently. 'I'm fine. Just trying to think of a way to stop Granger telling her little friends what she saw, that's all.'

'Are you sure?' the mirror asked, not quite believing him. 'Because people who're just figuring out problems don't usually…'

'Look, I just don't want to talk about it, okay?' Draco snapped, sitting up and glaring darkly at the mirror. 'Forget it. If you want to be helpful, figure out a way for me to stop that Mudblood telling anyone.'

The mirror paused, a long and significant silence, before finally saying, 'Alright. Forget I said anything, okay? Right, so, how do you stop that dear Hermione telling anyone? It's a bit of a tricky one, isn't it, sweetheart…'

'I had realised,' he sneered. 'Basically there's three ways: threats, blackmail or bargains. I can't use any of those. She knows there aren't any threats I could carry out, I've no information on her to use as blackmail, and I have nothing she wants to bargain for.'

'So, a bit of a tricky one,' the mirror stated again. 'Definitely not a simple dilemma.'

'I had figured that out, thank you.' Draco replied testily, running a hand messily through his hair as he tried to think. He leant back against the headboard. 'Perhaps… If I could just get something… something she cared about. I could threaten to destroy it, or bargain to return it if she promised not to tell anyone. But _what_ does she care about?'

He frowned, and closed his eyes to think harder. The mirror kept a quiet, respectful silence. A minute or so later, Draco's eyes snapped open. 'Why didn't I think of that sooner?' he berated himself.

'Oooh, what's your plan?' asked the mirror, intrigued.

'Something Granger cares about, that's a good enough incentive to stop her spilling my secret to those brainless idiots she calls friends,' he said with a grin, an evil shine coming into his eyes. 'Something like, say, her pet cat?'

'She has a pet cat?' the mirror asked, then it became doubtful. 'You aren't going to hurt it, are you, because…'

'Only if she refuses to promise,' Draco replied as if the topic hardly mattered. 'Now, how best to do this… yes… I'll just be a minute.'

With this he slid off the bed and left the room swiftly to return a few minutes later with a hissing, spitting, struggling ball of fur in his arms. Dropping Crookshanks on the floor, he slammed the door behind him and sank onto the bed, watching the angry cat nervously and rubbing his arm. 'Damn thing nearly took my eye out.'

'Oh, the poor thing!' replied the mirror. 'It doesn't look very happy…'

'That _cat's_ a poor thing?' Draco asked incredulously. 'What about me? I'm bleeding from that damned animal's scratches!'

'Awww, who's a poor little kitty then?' the mirror cooed, and Draco rolled his eyes. 'Did the big mean nasty Draco scare you? I know, he's a scary one…'

Crookshanks meowed angrily, opening his jaws wide to reveal sharp incisors. Draco shifted imperceptibly away from the cat.

The mirror cooed over Crookshanks a little while longer, while the cat wandered round the room, trying to escape with no avail. Eventually, he crawled under Draco's desk and sat there, mewling pitifully.

'So, what are you going to do to the poor little kitty, now that you've catnapped him?' the mirror asked with an accusatory tone to its voice.

'As little as possible, ideally.' Draco replied with a sharp sidelong glare at the cat. 'I'll wait for Granger to come along, then I'll say that her cat ran into my room and won't come out, and make her remove the damned thing. When she comes in, I force her to promise not to tell anyone… I should threaten the cat as well, to make sure she keeps it…'

'Poor little kitty,' the mirror crooned. 

'And you, mirror, can shut up about the cat.' Draco added. 'It is not a poor little kitty at all. It is a demon from Hell. Have you seen how much that bloody animal scratched me?'

The mirror sniffed. 'Well, you were kidnapping him at the time,' it pointed out. 'And don't you call me 'mirror' either, I do have a name you know. How would you like it if I called you 'human' all the time?'

'Technically I'm not human, remember, I'm half-Fallen…'

'Human, half-Fallen, whatever. The same principle applies.' The mirror sounded hurt.

'Fine then. Tell me your name and I'll call you by it.' Draco said in exasperation.

The mirror sniffed. 'My name's Rita.'

'Great. Fine. Hello, Rita.' Draco replied, and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs ended all further conversation, as he moved swiftly to the door and crouched, peering through the keyhole.

Coming up the stairs, as he'd hoped, were the four Gryffindors. The two Weasleys on either side of Potter, chattering away, and yes, there – Granger, walking to their left, seemingly distracted. Draco's mouth curved into a cruel smirk, and behind him, Crookshanks mewed piteously. 

Draco swung open the door, moulding his face into the shapes of anger. 'Granger!' he shouted. 'Your filthy cat's got into my room!''

She looked up, blinked. 'He isn't filthy.' she pointed out coolly. 'And if he's in there, get him out.'

He leaned against the doorframe, scowling. 'Yes, funny thing that, but whenever I go near the bloody thing it attacks me. Now will you come and get the damned animal out of here before it defiles my room?'

'Alright, alright,' she said in exasperation. 'You three go on, I'll just be a moment.' 

Hermione scowled at Draco, before detaching herself from the group of Gryffindors and entering his room, heading straight for the desk under which Crookshanks was cowering. As the cat ran straight into Hermione's arms, mewling loudly, Draco closed the door with a soft click, standing across the doorway, blocking Hermione's exit.

She scooped Crookshanks up and stood, hugging the cat to her, calming him down with soft words. It really was an extremely ugly cat, Draco mused. Well, he'd heard it said that the pet reflected the owner…

Hermione frowned when she noticed that Draco was blocking the doorway. 'Alright, I've got my cat, now let me out,' she said firmly.

'Why should I?' he asked, a simple smile flickering onto his face.

She wasn't imperceptive. 'What do you want, Malfoy?'

'That should be simple enough for even a Mudblood like you to figure out, Granger…'

From the wall, Rita muttered quietly, 'Really, Draco, your language…'

'Shut up Rita,' he said. 'Simply put, Granger, I want your promise that you will tell no one about what you saw earlier. That event shall never leave this room. Alright?'

'How will you stop me?' she challenged. 'I could tell anyone I want, and if you laid so much as a finger on me you'd get found out…'

'True.' Draco smirked. 'If I laid a finger on you…. But I don't have to hurt you physically, do I? For example…' he savoured the moment, eyes glittering, 'you're very attached to that cat, aren't you?'

She stiffened, eyes narrowing, clutching Crookshanks closer to her. 'What do you mean, Malfoy?'

'Well, just imagine how easy it would be for something bad to happen to Crookshanks.' His face was the picture of innocence, his voice silk. 'A fall down the stairs, an injury that gets infected, a fight with another cat, a collision with one of those vulgar Muggle cars…'

'You wouldn't dare,' she hissed.

He smirked. 'Are you willing to wager Crookshank's life on that?'

She didn't reply, looking away and burying her cheek in Crookshanks' fur.

'Of course, there is the alternative course of action…' He leant casually against the door, sensing an imminent victory. 'Give me your promise not to breathe a word to anyone of what you saw, and I'll let you and your precious cat go free. Under the condition, of course, that if you tell anyone the revenge will fall on Crookshanks' ugly head…'

She bit her lip. Finally, with her dark eyes shining and her voice bitter, she lifted her head and spoke. 'Fine. I promise never to tell anyone what I saw earlier today. Now let us go!'

Draco smirked and stood aside, knowing that he had what he wanted. 'Certainly. A pleasure doing business with you.'

Hermione hadn't taken more than two steps towards the door when, unexpectedly, Rita spoke up, her voice polite and brittle. 'Wait a minute, Hermione. I think there's something Draco would like to say to you…'

They both frowned. 'What on earth are you talking about?' asked Draco in annoyance.

'You know what I mean, Draco.' Rita replied coolly. 'The troubles you have with that little thing called a conscience, dearie? I think an _apology_ is in order here.'

Draco felt as though Rita had just hit him, hard, in the stomach. An apology? Mentioning the whole complex, difficult conscience situation in front of Mudblood Granger, of all people? For a moment he considered walking up to the mirror and smashing it into pieces, before he got a calm, logical control over himself.

Hermione looked perplexed. 'Malfoy? Conscience? He's never had one before, why should one trouble him now?'

'I'm under new management,' Draco quipped with a dark glare to the mirror, who merely laughed. Rita could understand the joke – after all, he had explained Fallens and half-Fallens to her at great length.

Then came the thick tension caused by people evaluating the situation and working out what to do next. Draco looked between the mirror and Hermione, unsure of what to do next. Should he apologise? If it helped with that horrible spiked weight in his stomach, it would be worth it… And what did he have to lose if it didn't?

He decided to risk it. Turning to Hermione, he said formally, as he'd been taught, 'I apologise to you for injuring your arm earlier. It was wrong of me.'

The tension thickened. Draco frowned a little at the strange, assessing look on Granger's face. It made him feel uneasy, somehow, and nervous.

Then her expression changed, a decided, firm expression now, and she said, 'Alright, I accept your apology.'

'Good.' He realised that didn't know what he was supposed to say next. 'Well, take your cat and go, then…'

'Are you sure you're quite finished with what you want to say to Hermione, darling?' Rita cut in again, a rather insistent tone in her voice. 'I think there might be something a little more to say to her, something along the lines of an _explanation_, perhaps. Savvy?' 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. 'I would certainly _like_ an explanation…'

'Oh no.' Draco shook his head. He didn't want this; didn't want Mudblood Granger knowing such things about him, about what he was, about these strange, incomprehensible thing that were his feelings. One thing he had understood was that feeling were private, and his instinct was to guard them. 'I'm not being pushed around by… by a _mirror_, of all things.'

'Really?' asked Rita pleasantly. 'However gorgeous you may be, sweetheart, I think you owe Hermione an explanation. And if you don't tell her, I will.'

A rather cold feeling came over Draco then, like swallowing a hard lump of ice and feeling it shiver down his spine. He stared at the mirror, almost disbelieving what it had just said – a strange thing, considering he'd heard it clearly – but somehow, he couldn't make himself accept what Rita had said. Tell Granger? Tell her about… about everything, about what he was and… and the emotions. That's what he didn't want to tell her, most of all. Because that was private.

'You wouldn't,' he said slowly, shaking his head. 'You wouldn't dare…'

'Sweetie, I know you don't want anyone to know,' Rita began sympathetically, 'but really, its for your own good. You ought to have someone who actually knows what emotions feel like to help you. And Hermione's a nice girl.'

Draco gaped in horror at the mirror, trying to protest, but the cold emotion which had swept over him was strangely weakening. Besides, he knew that he couldn't stop Rita. He couldn't attack her physically, or anything to force her silence, only protest and plead. And what good would those do? 

Numbly, he made his way to the bed and sat upon it, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them, staring at nothing. Strangely, he felt nothing. He was drawn away form the world around him, wrapped in a cocoon made from nothing, and he was glad of it, because he knew that Rita's… _betrayal_, would hurt when he felt it.

Hermione looked worriedly between him and Rita. Coming to a conclusion, she put Crookshanks back on the floor and crossed to the mirror's side. Silently, unable to do anything, Draco listened to their conversation.

'Alright,' began Rita, 'here's the story. Do you know all the stories about angels? The Fall and things like that?'

'I know the Fall, yes… though I'm rather worried as to what it has to do with Malfoy. Besides, isn't it a myth?'

'It's partly true. Basically, before humans took over this earth, angels were the main species. Just like humans, only with pretty feathery wings. Well, alright, not just like humans… See, physically they were similar, but their minds were… well, alien.'

Hermione cast a nervous glance towards Draco. 'Alien…. How?'

'Well the most important thing as I see it is that the angels didn't feel emotion. There's some other things, like perceiving colours and smells and stuff differently, but that's really not important. Now, there were two kinds of these angels, some Good and some Evil.'

'How were they good and evil without emotions?' asked Hermione.

'Instinct. The Good ones had instincts that made them do good things – healing, helping, so on, while the Evil ones had instincts that made them hurt and kill. They also had powers that echoed this - you know, Good ones had healing powers, Evil were more like Dark Arts. You get it so far?'

A nod.

'Okay. The Good and the Evil fought, and the Good won. And then they threw the Evil ones from Earth to some other place.'

'Hell?' Hermione asked.

'You'd call it Hell, though no one really knows what or where it is,' the mirror replied. 'Just personal opinion, but I doubt there's any fire and brimstone there. The Good angels had an instinct to do good things, didn't they, so I don't think they'd hurt the Evil ones more than they had to… but look at me, going off track! Anyway, the Good ones left the earth then too, for their own place – Heaven? Anyway, they aren't important now. What is important is that some of the Evil ones were left behind on earth.'

Hermione shot another sharp glance towards Draco, who turned his head on one side to avoid it, and wondered how long this comfortable numbness would last.

'And… and where does Malfoy come into this?'

'I'm getting there, dearie. See, these Evil Angels were given a new name by the humans – Fallens. And these Fallens ended up interbreeding with the humans, and having kids.'

'What? As in, half-Fallen and half-human?' she asked curiously.

'Aye, exactly. They were called half-Fallens, and they're rather complicated. For one, they can shape shift between the two physical forms. For another… See, since Fallen and human minds are so alien, they end up with two personalities. One Fallen, emotionless, instinct based, evil. One human, with all the emotions, feelings, and conscience of any normal person. The Fallen side is usually dominant…'

There was a significant silence, and then Hermione said, very softly, very quietly, 'Oh.'

Draco could feel the way she was looking at him without seeing it – surprise and sympathy – and he hated it. He didn't want her to know this. He didn't want her to be able to pry into his life. He didn't want her to know his weaknesses. Slowly, the strange dam that surrounded him began to crack.

'Yes,' Rita said simply. 'Draco is one of these - from what he's said, the Malfoys have always carried the genes. His father is one, his grandfather was one, and so on back to the time of the very first humans. He's had a Fallen mind all his life. Until recently, when the two minds… kinda flipped over, from his descriptions – and he's human now.'

'Oh.' Hermione said again, just as quietly, and then, 'So he's… he's never felt emotions before?'

Draco tensed, hating what was happening, hating Mudblood Granger for caring about it – he didn't want anyone in this! – but he sat there, with his shield breaking into pieces, knowing that realistically, he was powerless here.

'No. Never,' Rita replied simply. 'When it happened, he went to Dumbledore – he couldn't stay at home, obviously, his father would find out and he would _not_ be pleased. So he flew to Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore brought him here. The rest you know.'

There was silence, a thick, uncertain hush that hung in the air like fog. Finally, Hermione spoke.

'Thank you,' she said softly to the mirror, then crossed the room tentatively, stopping a few paces from Draco. Draco kept his head turned away from her, not wanting to see her face.

'Malfoy…' she began doubtfully, 'I realise I'm not the best person for this, and I don't know how much I can do, but if you ever need someone to help…'

And then the dam or shield or cocoon snapped, the numbness vanishing in an instant, ice replaced by fire. It burned through him, this new feeling, hot and fiery and raging.

His head snapped round, causing Hermione to take a quick step backwards. 'I don't want your help!' he hissed. 'I never _will_ want help from a… from a stupid Mudblood!'

She looked hurt, as though he'd slapped her in the face. 'I see,' she whispered, then caught up Crookshanks from where he'd been patiently waiting on the floor, swung around and left quickly, closing the door behind her.

For a long time, he sat clutching his pillow, eyes still on the closed door, letting the fire inside him dwindle away until he was calm again. Then and only then did he turn his face to Rita where she hung on the wall, and say in a soft, low tone, 'I _hate_ you.'

'I know,' said Rita. 'I know.'

~*~

**A/N:** Rita was named for the character in 'Educating Rita', which is a brilliant play, incidentally. And I think that's all I can say, other than my usual plea. Allow me to get down on one knee… Ahem. We've had a beautiful relationship, you know, as author and reader, so I was wondering… will you be my Valent- Hang on a minute! OK, confess – who swapped my scripts around? Honestly, those betas, completely irresponsible… Now, what was I meaning to say? Ah yes – review. Please?


	8. Compassion Accepted and Refused

**Chapter 7: Compassion - Accepted and Refused**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Harry Potter, I'd be spending my time writing Book 6, not on this. Surprisingly, I don't own Harry Potter.****

**Thanks for 164 reviews goes to:** taragoddess, Go10, storm079, Kippen, sever13, Saotoshi, Lexie, willowfairy, ToMLuVa06, jules37, mesmer, Vorian, Lanenkar, Monoka, Simpson-Girl, Angel, Plaidly Lush, Lady Mistress, Beauty Full, Flexi Lexi, Ms. Lit, MsLessa, PinkTribeChick, Cuppy.

**A/N:** A lot of people asked questions this chapter, so I'll have a little answering-session… Vorian asked why it's under romance – to which I say: be patient! It's book-length, there's plenty of time for all that to develop in its own good time. 

To Lanenkar: yes, I have read that comic! It's on my favourites list, actually… I've always been intrigued by the idea of fallen angels, so naturally, that particular comic appealed to me. Of course, she and I have taken the 'fallen angel' concept in different directions. Another reason why I like the concept, its very flexible… For anyone else who loves the idea of fallen angels, is the address. Lovely comic.

Simpson-Girl: Not sure why I use 'these' instead of "these". I think it's because I learnt my grammar primarily through reading books, and most books use 'these' for dialogue, if you look. So I've always used 'these' for dialogue too.

Anyone else who asked something that I didn't answer: I've either completely forgotten out in a moment of temporary amnesia, can't think of anything to say, or don't want to answer for my own diabolical purposes. Mwhahahahahahaha. Oh, and special thanks to those who said I did Draco well; he's extremely difficult to pull off, as you may imagine.

And onto the update. Due to visiting my sister over half-term (who is very well, and has a lovely bumpy tummy with a baby inside, though I didn't feel it kicking at all) I got rather behind with writing, and actually finished this chapter at 1:46pm today. Thankfully, I have some gorgeous betas who managed, in that ridiculously short space of time, to read it, beta and send it back, spotting some rather dire and stupid mistakes I'd made. Thank you Sigma and Psi!

I'm also (I had a moment of insanity) in the Contra Veritas Valentine's fic exchange/contest. Of course, I joined BEFORE they decided to make it a contest… So I'm going to be writing a lot in the next week or two, trying to get it done before the deadline. Obviously I can't tell you which fic I've been assigned, but you'll all see it when the contest's over.

Enough of me. Onto the fic: enjoy.

~*~

_Nothing vivifies, and nothing kills, like the emotions._

**_Joseph Roux_**

~*~

The room was so silent that his own breathing became nearly deafening in comparison to the sheer soundlessness of everything around him. Rita hadn't said anything, and he certainly wasn't going to say anything to her, not after she'd betrayed all his secrets so cleanly. He should never have told her anything about it in the first place. But he'd needed someone to ask about things, and she was the only person in the whole place who wasn't his enemy. Until now, of course. Now she was his enemy.

Granger knew what he was. His secret was out, and the only thing he had to stop it spreading further was a threat, one which Granger might very well decide he wouldn't carry out – he would, but that wasn't the point – and tell all the rest of the Gryffindors what he was, and then… And then what would they think, what would they do? He didn't know, which was perhaps the worst thing of all. If he'd known, he could have started making plans, tried to stop them, tried to make them do what he wanted…

But all he could do was sit here and wonder, and hope she would keep it secret, and hope nothing came of it. 

There was too much to feel. And the feelings never came one-by-one, neatly and simply, so he could figure out what each one was, pin it down and label it with a name and description, like a collection of rare and unusual insects. No, they came in swarms, and they all happened at once, until any kind of identification was a hopeless task. And now there seemed more of them than ever; hundreds of them, until the sheer task of feeling them all at once made him dizzy, nauseous. 

It was like some of the Dark spells he'd learnt; the ones that made the unfortunate victim's world spin around and around, stopped them knowing up from down and right from left, made familiar sights and people into grotesque monsters, made them dizzy, sick, bewildered, until they screamed for one shred of sanity in their maddened, insane, nightmarish world. That was how it felt; to feel so many things at once after feeling nothing all his life. Did humans feel like this all the time? Was this kind of thing normal to them? Were they – impossible as it seemed – used to it?

And the Dark spells would be taken off eventually, but he didn't see how this could ever be removed, unless his Fallen mind managed to retake control – and he could feel it, if he tried, calling, trying to take back the power it had once held, but this human mind had too strong a survival instinct to allow him just to give in. So he'd either have to live with it until he died, or get used to it, so he no longer even noticed it. And it was impossible for him to learn to live with this. What did that leave? Nothing but a lifetime of this, this horrible, horrible onslaught of emotions…

And into his thoughts, through the silence of the room, came a voice. Rita's voice, hesitant and timid.

'Er… Draco? There's an owl at the window…'

He raised his head, giving Rita a dark, venomous glare, then looked over to the window. As she'd said, there was an owl there, a beautiful tawny one with wide, intelligent eyes and glossy feathers, which he recognised instantly as Raphael, his mother's owl.

Swinging himself out of bed, he crossed the floor and opened the window, allowing the owl to fly onto his forearm with a gentle, friendly hoot. Raphael had always been an good-natured owl.

He took the letter back to his bed, letting Raphael perch on the headboard, and unwrapped the scroll, looking over his mother's neat handwriting.

_Draco,_

_            Originally, I was going to arrange a subterfuge with Dumbledore – send you letters through him, so your father would find it harder to track the owls – but it seems quite pointless as things stand. How he discovered it, I don't know, but he knows of your recent change, and he's fairly certain of where you're staying. But don't worry, my son – he knows full well that he cannot touch you while you're under Dumbledore's protection, and the Order is one of the safest places on earth._

_But I didn't write to talk about your father. What I really want – and I hope you forgive my lack of subtlety – is to know how you're doing. I've only known you, as a human rather than a Fallen, for a very short time. A week, near enough, and for most of that you were hiding it. Which isn't nearly enough time for a mother to know her son._

_If I could have one wish, I'd ask to be with you now. I can only guess what it must be like for you, my darling, and it drives me mad worrying about how you're coping with it. Emotions can be very complicated and difficult things, I'm fully aware, and I want you to know that you can always write to me if you need help._

_Write to me. Quickly, and soon, even if you wish to give me nothing more than an assurance that you're alright. I will be waiting by the window and watching for Raphael's return._

_-Your loving mother._

_P.S. With my next letter, I'll start sending some of the things you left behind here. Such as your homework and school things (I've read over your homework; the Potions essay was superb, as always). I would have sent them with this letter, but it would burden Raphael too much, and I want your answer as swiftly as possible. Forgive my impatience!_

Draco smiled, an odd, brittle smile, and ran his hand gently over the parchment. Whatever these mad, insane feelings meant, he felt a lot better. He may be surrounded by enemies here, but his mother was on his side. And she could help him, couldn't she? She knew all about Fallens, and half-Fallens, and she knew about emotions too…

Rolling his mother's letter back into a scroll, he went to the desk that stood in one corner of the room, took out parchment and a quill, and began to write a long, long letter.

~*~

In Hermione's room, the enchanted lamp was still shining warmly, casting a gold-tinted light over the desk, the bookshelves, the bed, and the quiet, still form of Hermione herself. Even though the moon was high in the soft black sky, she was still awake, leaning on her pillows with her forehead furrowed in thought.

There was simply too much to think about. And, after leaving Malfoy's room earlier, she hadn't had the time to think about it properly – Ron, Ginny and Harry had been waiting for her and she'd spent all evening talking to them. Now it was night; and the old house was silent. And she could finally try to sort out everything that Rita had told her.

It was such a huge, impossible, alien idea that she had difficulty grasping it. Not the idea of there being angels and Fallen and half-Fallen, that was; after all, she'd had to grasp far more unbelievable ideas than that before. The existence of an entire magical world, for example. No, what she couldn't grasp was the fact that Fallen and half-Fallen – like Malfoy – didn't feel emotions.

All the times he'd fought with them and spat insults at them; they'd been nothing but good acting. So Malfoy had never felt… angry. Or upset. Or afraid. Or guilty. He'd never cared for anyone. He'd never experienced love, or friendship. He'd never been touched by compassion. Misery was foreign to him, as was hate, and happiness, and jealousy, and mirth, and anxiety, and pride, and shame, and all the hundreds of emotions that humanity could feel; he had never felt any of them. Until now.

She couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like, not to feel anything. It was impossible. Unthinkable. Everything, when she thought about it, inspired some form of emotion; she couldn't think of a time when she had felt absolutely _nothing_. The only thing more unimaginable than the lack of emotions was the situation of suddenly gaining them, having been without them all your life. The situation that Malfoy was facing.

How he must be feeling, how difficult it must be for him to cope… It stirred something Hermione had never thought she'd feel for Draco Malfoy: sympathy.  While she couldn't pardon his earlier attack on Harry, she could understand why he'd lashed out like that; not out of sheer malevolence, but because he was…lost, and uncertain, and defensive.

It felt extremely odd to be thinking of Malfoy in this way; she had never considered Malfoy in terms of anything more than a cruel force, bent on insulting and hurting herself and her friends. Which he had been at the time, Hermione realised. When he had a Fallen mind, Malfoy must have been just intelligence and a bundle of malevolent instincts. But they hadn't known that, and he could just as easily have had emotions and feelings then. Only they'd never considered them. Not once.

Hermione shook her head, feeling suddenly cold, and drew the blankets closer around herself. It was pointless dwelling on the past and whether she should have thought about people's feelings. More important to concentrate on the here and now; on Malfoy's change and what should be done about it. Hermione felt almost duty-bound to help him; she was the only one in the house who knew – apart from possibly some Order members, and they were much too busy – she was the only one who knew what he was. 

The problem was that she knew full well that Malfoy would never accept any kind of help from her, or from anyone. Or would he? How different would he be, now that he was human? She didn't know, but she knew all the same that Malfoy wouldn't want her help. You only had to look at his behaviour; defensive, aggressive when he could be. Avoiding people.

No, the best she could do was offer indirect help. She herself couldn't be overtly friendly towards him, certainly, but she could make herself be civil, polite. And stop the others from being too hostile towards him, discourage them from fighting. Mrs. Weasley didn't make things easier for him either, but would she listen to Hermione about Malfoy? Perhaps Rita, the mirror, could suggest more things…

Her mind toyed with more and more possibilities as the moon rose higher in the sky, until the lateness of the hour caused Hermione to fall sound asleep, her glowing lamp forgotten.

~*~

Breakfast the next morning was much the same, to Harry, as it had been the previous few mornings. Sitting with his friends in the huge kitchen, eating his way through a plateful of sausages, and chatting absently to his friends. It all felt strangely detached; not quite real, with a thin, dreamlike quality to the air. And it was all too easy to drift into his own thoughts, the room around him becoming nothing but haze, until Ron or Hermione brought him back.

He forced himself to pay attention to things. Ron and Ginny were the same as always, keeping up friendly breakfast banter over a huge amount of food. Hermione, however, looked tired: there were faint dark patches under her eyes, and she looked thoughtful. Harry felt slightly guilty, thinking that he himself might be the cause, until he noticed that Hermione kept looking up, with thoughtful frowns, at the corner where Malfoy was eating his own solitary breakfast. Occasionally Malfoy would glance up with an extremely deadly, burning glare in Hermione's direction.

There'd probably been an exchange of insults, but he lacked the drive to be observant any more, and let the subject drop. Hermione and Malfoy fought all the time. It was to be expected. Nothing new, and she was fine besides…

'Wotcher, Harry,' came a cheerful voice from over his shoulder, and Harry looked behind him to see a cheerful, smiling Tonks, her hair a rather violent shade of orange this morning. 'How's things?'

He shrugged. 'I'm fine.' he replied.

'Hey, Tonks,' Ginny chipped in with a smile, 'I've not seen you around lately… anyone would think you'd been avoiding us!'

Tonks laughed. 'Just been busy, you know. Order stuff,' she said with a wink. 'Why would I want to avoid you, anyway? Other than our hair clashing dreadfully…' The two Weasleys snorted, and Hermione laughed a little. Tonks grinned. 'Anyway… I can't stay long; I've got to be at the Ministry soon. I was just wondering… Harry, mate, could I have a word would you?'

'A word?' he frowned. 'I've got to go help Mrs. Weasley clean…'

'Oh, don't worry, I've asked her already, its perfectly alright,' Tonks replied breezily. Harry looked at her open, round, trustworthy face and wondered: what did she want? It was almost certainly to do with… with Sirius, and with what had happened lately, and he didn't want to discuss that. On the other hand, it might not be. And it wouldn't be polite to refuse. And Tonks was smiling too hopefully for him to say no.

'Alright then,' he muttered, standing up from the breakfast table. 'I'll… I'll have a word, then.'

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny smile and look over to Hermione, who also smiled back. Well, agreeing had done some good at least. Tonks also looked happy.

'Great,' she beamed. 'We'll just get out of the kitchen, Harry, it's far too noisy in here…

He trailed behind her out of the room, already wishing he'd refused; what could it be about other than Sirius, other than things he didn't want to discuss? Tonks had already tried talking about it when they'd come to take him from the Dursleys.

He shut the kitchen door and leant against the wall beside it, crossing his arms defensively. Tonks had pulled her wand out and started fiddling with it, seeming suddenly unsure of what to say.

'Well,' she began, 'what I wanted to talk about was… well…'

'Sirius.' Harry supplied in a groan. 'Look, Tonks, I don't…'

She interrupted him. 'No, actually, I can see why you thought that, but… What I really wanted to discuss is Remus.'

'Professor Lupin?' Harry asked, confused. 'Why?'

She sighed, tucking her wand back into her sleeve. 'Because he's just as upset over Sirius as you are. And don't even try to claim that you aren't, Harry, because it's obvious…'

'I wasn't going to say that.' Harry interrupted, feeling irritated.

'Alright. But you _are_ both upset, and… and to be honest, I haven't a clue what's going on with either of you.' She smiled faintly, and Harry couldn't help but feel a bit better. Finally, someone who didn't try to understand, who didn't claim to know what was wrong with him…

'I just think that perhaps you two should talk, that's all.' Tonks finished with a hopeful shrug. 'I think… It might make things better, that's all.'

He didn't want to talk to Lupin. Sirius had been Lupin's closest friend, Harry knew that, and then Sirius had died because of him. Lupin should be furious, enraged – it would be better if he _was_ angry, rather than the strangely fragile man Harry had seen when he'd arrived, who still didn't believe it was Harry's fault that Sirius had died. Surely Lupin would eventually realise that it had been Harry's fault, and then he'd be angry. Everyone would be angry with him, when they stopped denying that it was Harry's own stupid, reckless fault…

But Tonks was standing in front of him, looking at him with a tentative hopefulness, and he didn't have the heart to turn her down. Besides, if he and Lupin sorted out… whatever it was that they had to sort out, perhaps when Lupin did realise that it was all Harry's fault, he wouldn't react so badly. Perhaps…

'Alright,' Harry found himself saying, 'I'll do it. I'll talk to Professor Lupin…'

Tonks beamed, a sudden, bright beam, which lit her face up. 'Brilliant! Thank you, Harry – I'm certain it'll make you both feel so much better. Remus should be in one of the small sitting rooms. I'll take you to him.'

Harry nodded, already wondering if he'd made the right choice, and Tonks began to lead the way. She lead him through a tiny archway and onto a corridor he'd never seen before, chattering aimlessly. Harry didn't really listen.

After a second or two, however, a question occurred to him. 'Tonks,' he asked uncertainly, 'why are you doing this? I mean, for Lupin…'

'Remus?' she asked, looking slightly puzzled. 'Oh! I forgot, you haven't been here since last summer… golly, you've missed a lot. Remus and I were working on… on the same project for the Order, and you know how it is when you have to work with someone for ages, you end up either liking them or hating them. We get on really well, which most people didn't expect, because we've got totally different personalities… Oh, and this is the room…'

Harry felt his stomach twist; he considered backing out, telling Tonks he didn't want to talk to Lupin after all, but she was already knocking on the door. 'Remus?' she called.

'I'm here,' came back the familiar voice of Professor Lupin, and Tonks swung the door open.

'Heya, Remus,' she grinned, before turning to Harry and adding, 'You go on in, I'll leave you two alone…'

Feeling incredibly nervous, much the same as he had before his OWL examinations, Harry stepped into the room. The early-morning sun streamed in through the window, making everything bright and cheerful. The walls were a light yellow, except for the wall furthest from the door, which was a vibrant shade of orange and had a large fireplace, currently unlit, as its centrepiece. On Harry's right was a large row of bookshelves, a chair and a small table. On his left was a small coffee table, a threadbare but very comfortable-looking sofa, and Professor Lupin.

He was sitting on the sofa, apparently just as nervous as Harry felt, and looking far too pale and worn for this bright, cheerful room. Harry had a feeling Tonks had selected the room; it was far too lively for the meeting that was to take place in it.

'Morning, Harry,' said Lupin, managing a small smile, which Harry found himself returning, tense.

'Morning, Professor Lupin.'

Lupin laughed; a tiny laugh that died almost as soon as it began. 'How many times,' he asked, looking up from the floor, 'do I have to tell you to call me Remus? I'm not your professor any longer…'

Harry shrugged. 'Wish you were,' he mumbled, 'all the rest have been rubbish.'

'Like Dolores Umbridge?' Lupin asked. 'I've heard a lot about her…'

'Yeah, she was awful,' Harry agreed, wondering how long they'd continue to avoid the subject. As long as possible, he hoped. If they just kept on and on avoiding talking about it, maybe they'd never have to…

'So,' Lupin carried on, 'you never told me how you did in your OWLs. Did you do well?'

Harry shrugged vaguely. 'Three O's, two E's, and four A's.' He'd gotten his results a week or two ago; it had been one of the very few things that he'd really perceived through the hazy, dream-like state he'd been in.

Lupin smiled. 'Really? Well done, Harry, that's excellent.'

'I guess…' Harry replied noncommittally. The atmosphere was slowly but tangibly thickening; the longer they skirted the matter at hand, the more it built and intensified. 

Finally, Lupin sighed, leaning his head into his hands and rubbing his temples. 'I guess I should stop the attempts at small talk…' Harry's stomach twisted; this was it, then.

'Harry,' Lupin took a deep breath, 'I'm not angry at you, you know…'

'You should be.' Harry said numbly, staring at his feet. 'I'm the one who got Sirius killed…'

'No, you didn't.' Lupin was speaking very firmly and very calmly. 'Harry, it was Sirius' own decision to go after you. It was Bellatrix who cast that curse. If you'd dragged him there by force, and thrown him into the veil yourself, then I would have cause to blame you. But you…'

'It was _my_ fault.' Harry's voice cut through Lupin's careful words like a knife. 'If I hadn't been there, it would never have happened.'

'Yes, but you were only there because you were trying to help Sirius,' Lupin pointed out. 'And even if Voldemort was using you, your motives were good ones. How could I find anything to blame in that?'

Harry shook his head. 'I should have been more sensible. I shouldn't have been so reckless, I should have thought…'

'And had Sirius really been there, and had you saved him from the danger you'd intended to save him from, you'd have been praised for your fast response and bravery under pressure.' said Lupin. 'I'm not going to blame you or be angry at you for that.'

'But you should be!' Harry protested. 'You should be angry, you're just refusing to accept that it's my fault…'

'Harry, I know you're upset and angry at yourself, but…'

'I should have done more to prevent it!' Harry almost shouted. 'I should have kept up Occlumency, I should have been more wary of Voldemort, I should have thought before I ran off like that!'

'Harry,' Lupin began, trying to placate him, but Harry was having none of it.

'I don't care what you or anyone else thinks, it was my fault. If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't gone, we wouldn't have needed rescuing and he'd never have ended up there and he'd never have died! And I don't care what you say about… about what I intended, or Bellatrix, or anything! If I'd thought more, if I'd been more sensible and less reckless, Sirius would be alive today, and you know it!'

His last shout rang across the room. Lupin looked directly at Harry, looking worse than before; miserable, hurt, helpless. Harry turned sharply, tore the door open and raced out of the room, away from Lupin.

~*~

**A/N:** Poor Harry. Don't worry; he gets out of the 'It's all my fault!' stage soon, I can assure you. And now I'm going to work on my challenge fic. Leave me lots of reviews, please? I'm going to need all the support I can get to pull through the huge amount of writing I have coming up. Don't worry: I'll get Fallen done fine. The next chapter or two should be nice easy ones. But why are you sitting there reading my pleas? You should have clicked that review button already!


	9. Enemies' Words

**Chapter 8: Enemies' Words**

**Disclaimer: **As of last Saturday, I own a bow, complete with arrows, bow stringer, bracer, tab, chest guard (or tit-protector, when I'm in a blunt mood) spare arrow rests, bow stand, and similar necessary paraphernalia of archery, which I've been rather obsessed with all week. I do not, however, own Harry Potter.****

**Thanks for 188 reviews goes to:** storm079, Go10, heavengurl899, mesmer, ToMLuVa06, Lyra Silvertongue2, Paganicewand, halosangel, Simpson-Girl, Simrun, Plaidly Lush, jules37, Haystack8190, SiN, Orchid6297, Pheonix, Beauty Full, Bambi, KrystyWroth, Saotoshi, Flexi Lexi, willowfairy, taragoddess, awkward.

**A/N:** Another week, another chapter.

Bambi brought the slow pace of the story up in her review, which is something I felt I should perhaps comment on. One of the things I've disliked in my other stories is that everything's been a little… fast, especially for such a difficult pairing as Draco and Hermione. I'm also intending Fallen to be my last major fanfiction, after which I'm moving on to originals, though I'm sure I'll still produce some smaller Harry Potter things for all my wonderful fans to enjoy – but don't worry about it yet, because Fallen's book-length. So the product of the length of Fallen, the fact that its my last big one, and the speed I dislike in my other stories, means that I've decided to take this one slowly. There are also a lot of themes and ideas to get into the story, so I realise that some aspects of story might get neglected: I know that, and they'll feature very soon (and you'll notice that Harry and Ginny do spend some quality time together in this one. See, I do listen to my reviewers!).

Real life inspires stories, and that's exceptionally true for this chapter. The incident that Harry relates regarding a Geography lesson did actually happen; the smiling presenter being my very own Sigma, one of my wonderful betas. Smile and wave, Sigma, and look out – the audience has cameras!

Things are hectic at the moment, especially with this accursed challenge to finish. It's going to be very difficult to write Fallen as well as the challenge, and it's slightly possible that I may have to take a week's hiatus. If I do, I'll put an alert in my profile, so keep an eye on that. But I'm going to do everything in my power to avoid it! 

I think I've rambled enough for one week, and you all know what you really want is the new chapter. It's a good one. Enjoy!

~*~

_We can learn even from our enemies._

**_Ovid (43 BCE – 17 CE), Metamorphoses._**

~*~

In the time that he'd spent as a human so far, Draco had begun to feel a large number of negative emotions associated with mealtimes at the Order.

The only good thing about them was the food. In spite of everything, Mrs Weasley was actually an excellent cook, and she'd calmed down enough to ask him what he wanted and serve it as though he were any other person, even if her tone was a little cold.

The food was fine. Everything else, he loathed.

The Order members only tried to speak to him occasionally, and then it was nothing more than idle small-talk, trying to make him feel more 'welcome', he assumed. The ones who didn't speak to him gave him curious, puzzled looks when they thought he wasn't looking, as though he were some interesting article in a museum. Exhibit Twelve: Draco Malfoy.

And then, to make matters even worse, there was the little group of Gryffindors that had been the bane of his life for the past five years. The two Weasleys, who kept glaring at him unashamedly, and Granger, whose looks of mixed curiosity and concern were even worse. Then there was Potter, who Tonks had dragged off about ten minutes ago, who just sat there and moped because someone had died. And he thought _he_ had things bad…

Draco's teeth ground together as Granger shot him one more of her glances, followed by a dark glare from Ginny. And he'd have to spend the whole day cleaning with these people besides. He didn't want to be near them, especially not Granger, in light of what she'd discovered about him.

He pushed the remnants of a sausage around his plate, thought for a minute or two, and then made his decision. Quickly, he rose from the table, and feeling strangely liberated, walked out of the door.

He wouldn't go to the bathroom. He wouldn't help them clean. He'd just… avoid everyone, find a room somewhere and try to sort these emotions out. Try to make sense of things. He didn't care, at that point, what the others thought about that; he just wanted to get away from it all, away from the glares and the glances and Granger's irritatingly sympathetic looks.

Draco turned down an unused corridor, keeping his eyes open for any doors that stood ajar. Most rooms down here were locked – he even tried a doorknob, to make sure – but hopefully he could find an empty one…

Ah. There, on the left of the corridor; a door stood slightly open, light spilling into the dim, dusty corridor from inside. Draco, feeling quite glad to be facing a day free from the Gryffindors, reached over and opened the door…

And inside, by some cruel twist of fate, was Harry Potter.

He was sitting on a sofa facing away from the door, but after five years of enmity, Draco could recognise that irritatingly messy black hair, and Draco's cold grey eyes narrowed. Potter seemed to be hissing angrily under his breath, so softly that for a moment Draco thought he was speaking Parseltongue, before he realised that it was English after all.

'…Lupin's wrong… it was my fault… why did Tonks have to make me talk to him…'

Draco felt one of the hotter emotions, one that made him think of small, pointed needles. Potter, wallowing in self-pity again for such a stupid, small reason as someone dying. Draco had known people who died, and he didn't understand what the fuss was about. The person just ended. Stopped living. He could understand how it would be an annoyance, or an inconvenience, but getting so worked up about it he didn't understand. But then, humans felt all those complex feelings for each other, didn't they? And attachments. Maybe having an attachment broken actually hurt, like breaking a bone did. Only it was mental pain rather than physical.

Potter still hadn't noticed him.

And that annoying, needle-like emotion was still there. It was easier to define emotions by what they made him want to do, and this one made him want to lash out at Harry for acting so stupidly, when all that had happened to him was a death, and everything that had happened to Draco himself was so much _worse_…

He did think for a moment about whether he'd feel guilty later, but decided it didn't matter.

'Talking to yourself now, Potter?' he sneered.

Harry's head whipped round, his eyes darkening in a glare. 'What are you doing here?' he spat.

'I live here now,' Draco pointed out, deliberately misinterpreting the question. 'Or hadn't you noticed that? Too busy moping over your precious Sirius to pay attention to anything else?'

'It's a bit hard not to notice you when you're prancing around the place being an obnoxious prat,' Harry retorted. 'And I wasn't moping.'

Draco leaned against the doorframe. Feelings were firing off like volcanoes; mostly ones that made him want to keep on with this, so he did. 'Oh please, Potter. I have _seen_ you at mealtimes. Always gazing off into space like someone just killed your pet dog… well, I suppose in a manner of speaking…'

'Shut up Malfoy!'

'No better retorts than that? Shameful.' Draco smirked. Harry was almost shaking with anger.

'Don't you… don't you _dare_ say anything about Sirius' death!' Harry ordered, hands tightening on the sofa as though he was trying to strangle it. 'You don't know anything…'

'Oh, I know all about your stupid little escapade to the Ministry.' Draco said casually. 'All about how Sirius Black followed you there and got killed in the fight, and how that gives you full licence to moan about how it was _all your fault_ and you're such a _bad person_…'

'It _was _my fault,' Harry cut in, 'It was me who…'

'Oh, so one person died because you did something stupid,' Draco scoffed. 'What do you want, the whole world to stop and give you sympathy?'

'I don't want sympathy!'

'Really? Because you're acting like it. Sitting around all day playing the wounded hero, the poor pitiable little boy who's lost someone close… do everyone a favour, Potter, and stop whining about it.'

Potter was shaking now, eyes darkened with rage, and Draco found the atmosphere strangely energising, like being outside in a lightening storm.

'You have no idea what its like…' he began, 'no idea at all what it's like… My godfather's dead because of something I did! And I have to live with that. You have no idea Malfoy…'

'Well, you don't exactly have any idea of my life either, do you Potter?' Draco said with a sarcastic, harsh smile. 'And so what if he's dead? Everyone dies. You mourn for a while and then you move on. You don't sit around pathetically and wallow in self-pity, like you appear to be doing.'

'I'm not wallowing!' Harry protested angrily. 'I'm… my godfather's dead!'

There was a carefully calculated silence, and then Draco raised an eyebrow at a precise angle. 'So I've heard,' he replied dryly, then, 'I think I'll leave you alone to _wallow_ now.'

And he left without another word.

~*~

Three hours later, and Harry still couldn't get Malfoy's words out of his mind.

He hadn't gone back to the bathroom to help with the cleaning, being at first too angry over what Malfoy had said. But then, as anger had died away, a cold, hard voice of reason somewhere inside him had said, _yes, but he does have a point, you know…_

Which he'd spent the next couple of hours trying to squash, even returning to his own room in case by getting out of the place where the argument had happened, the words would magically vanish from his memory. Malfoy had just been trying to insult him, to hurt him; it wasn't like _he'd_ ever got his godfather killed, or had a Prophecy hanging over his head, so who was he to talk about it?

Harry turned over – he was lying on his bed – and pummelled his flattened pillow. So what if Malfoy thought he was moping. He didn't have a clue. Although, that annoying inner voice pointed out, he had been right when he said Harry had been inattentive. Well, after lying on his bed at the Dursleys for the whole holiday doing nothing but thinking, it wasn't surprising that it was taking him a little while to get used to being around people again…

But it was his own fault that he'd not done anything. He could have gone out, if he'd wanted to, found something to do. The neighbours might not have talked to him, true, but he could still have got outside. There were plenty of buses, and though he'd had no Muggle money, he could have asked Hermione if she could change a few Galleons, more than enough for a few journeys into town. There was even a library nearby; he could have gone there, borrowed some books. Why hadn't he?

Because he'd been thinking about Sirius's death. _Moping._

He turned over again, irritable, slamming his head into the pillows, and closed his eyes. So alright. Perhaps he had been moping. A little bit. That didn't mean anything, he'd caused his godfather's death, it was perfectly fine to mope a bit.

And avoid everyone. And be distant with his friends. And argue with people who only wanted to help, like Lupin. And act like a complete, pathetic, wallowing-in-self-pity _idiot_…

Angrily – though what he was angry at, he was unsure – Harry pushed himself upright, rubbed his eyes, and from instinct rather than thought, picked up his glasses and slipped them on.

He should stop moping over Sirius. After all, he reminded himself, Sirius wouldn't _want_ him to be miserable. And all his friends were worried about him, and it was cruel to carry on like this and make them even more anxious. He remembered Hermione, Ron and Ginny sending him letters, every day, even when he wrote barely anything in reply.

As if thinking about his friends could conjure them into being, he heard footsteps on the stairs, the cheery voice of Tonks, and Ginny's giggle echoing up the passage. Well, if he'd decided he was really going to try and put all that behind him, there was no time like the present.

He walked up to the door, put his head round it, and mustered the best grin he could – not hard, when he saw Tonks and Ginny in front of him. 'Hey,' he said, 'how did you escape from cleaning?'

Tonks looked rather embarrassed. 'We were trying to find Remus… Look, I'm really sorry about what happened, I thought that maybe talking about it…'

'It's okay. Really,' Harry replied with mixed feelings. 'When you find Lupin, could you tell him I'm sorry for getting angry?'

Tonks grinned. 'Of course I will,' she promised. 'I'm going to carry on looking…  You don't need to keep me company, Gin. I know you only volunteered in the first place to get out of cleaning.'

'I didn't!' Ginny protested. 'Partly to get out of cleaning, but I also wanted to help find Lupin. And, of course, that little discussion…'

She and Tonks shared a conspirational grin, and then Tonks said, 'Well, you can stay here with Harry. Keep him company. Okay?'

'Great.' Ginny smiled. 'Good luck finding Lupin, then.'

'Good luck.' Harry echoed. Tonks thanked them and walked off down the corridor, pausing to check in random rooms.

Leaving Harry and Ginny alone, in what was suddenly a rather uncomfortable silence. Harry decided to speak first. 'So…' He cast around for a topic of conversation. 'How was the cleaning going?'

'Well, they're nearly done.' Ginny replied. 'They should be finished by lunchtime, though now I'm not there there's only three of them working… Malfoy just walked out at breakfast. We haven't seen him since, and good riddance.'

'I… ran into him.' Harry said, choosing his words carefully. 'Had a bit of an argument, like you'd expect… nothing serious though.'

'Bloody Malfoy.' Ginny grimaced. 'What did you argue about?'

He didn't tell the truth. 'Just general name-calling.' A thought struck him. 'Oh, and what was it you were talking about with Tonks? '

Ginny looked secretive. 'Nothing…' she answered, attempting to sound innocent. 'Nothing at all…'

'Which means you were talking about something interesting, and just don't want to tell me,' he pointed out. 'Come on, tell me. Please?'

'Girl things,' Ginny said. 'Top secret. Male minds cannot cope.'

Harry considered this carefully, from all angles. 'I think I could cope. Tell me,' he asked, and actually smiled. With Ginny's talkative nature holding his attention, he realised, there was less of his mind free to dwell on Sirius.

'Are you sure? I don't want to damage your mind…' Ginny put on an expression of mock doubt, her lips twitching with a suppressed smile.

'I'm feeling adventurous. Try it.'

Ginny shrugged. 'I wanted to know if she likes Lupin, and she said she does.'

Harry spluttered. 'Likes as in…?'

'Yes, _that _kind of likes.' Ginny grinned. 'And I knew you couldn't take it!'

'Of course I can,' Harry replied, pulling himself together. Tonks and Lupin… well it wasn't exactly the most obvious of pairs, but it made sense, when you looked at how close they had been recently. 'That's… very interesting.'

'Oh, and if you tell anyone I told you, you're dead. You do know that, right?' Ginny asked.

Harry nodded. 'My lips are sealed.'

'Good.' Ginny smiled at him. 'Why are we standing around in the corridor exactly?'

'Because we got talking about Tonks' love life?' Harry asked. 'We can go inside, if you want… there's about half an hour till lunchtime.'

'Sounds fine to me,' Ginny said, and followed him in. 'I was going to write a letter, but I'd rather chat, I guess.

'A letter?' Harry asked, as he opened the door. 'Who to?'

'Dean,' she replied, with a slightly dreamy grin. 'My boyfriend, remember?'

Harry nodded. 'I sat next to Ron on the train, I couldn't easily forget.'

Ginny snorted, taking a seat on a rather rickety old chair, while Harry perched on the bed. 'He was furious about it at first, wasn't he? I mean, he couldn't have looked more horrified if I was going out with… with Voldemort himself!'

Harry laughed a little at the idea. 'Now _that _would be an interesting romance.'

Ginny clasped her hands to her chest, and gazed adoringly upwards, as though looking into a lover's eyes. 'O, Voldemort,' she began, and Harry tried desperately not to laugh without much success, 'Your eyes are as red as rubies, your skin as white as fresh-fallen snow… And you know I love the way you cackle maniacally…' She couldn't carry on after that; she spluttered, then joined Harry in outright laughter.

When they'd recovered sufficiently to speak, she moaned, 'Oh no, I just had the most horrible thought… Imagine if it were Ron and Voldemort!' Which set both of them off again.

After half a minute, Harry gulped down a deep breath and attempted to control himself. Ginny snickered herself to a standstill, looked up, caught Harry's eye and they both grinned, fighting down another wave of laughter. It felt great, Harry reflected, to laugh again.

Trying to forget the disturbingly hilarious mental image of Voldemort presenting Ron with a heart-shaped box of chocolates on Valentine's Day, Harry returned to the previous topic. 'Well, I'm happy for you, Dean's a nice guy. How is he?'

'He's fine.' Ginny said, 'He's on holiday in Spain at the moment, so his poor owl has to fly a really long way to get here. That's why I should really leave the letter till later, she only got here this morning, and she'll want a good rest… I'm really jealous of Dean, getting to swan around in Spain. I always wanted to go abroad on holiday, but we can't afford it, so apart from that one holiday in Egypt I've never been anywhere…'

Her frank openness about the Weasley's lack of money caught Harry by surprise – Ron was always very touchy about it. 'I've never been abroad. The Dursleys went a few times but they always left me with relatives.'

Ginny made a face. 'If I was living with the Dursleys, I'd have hexed them years ago, underage magic be damned.'

Harry nodded. 'It's difficult to stop myself, sometimes.' He agreed. 'They left me alone most of this summer though…' He didn't really want to talk about the Dursleys, and changed the subject. 'So, where would you like to go? As in foreign holidays, that is.'

'Well, somewhere not too expensive…'

'If money didn't come into it. Say you won a free holiday to anywhere you wanted.'

She considered this. 'Somewhere they didn't speak English, so I could learn bits of another language when I went there. Somewhere _exotic, _somewhere really really different. India would be good, or Thailand. Oh! And I've always wanted to see the rainforest, all the pictures of it are so beautiful…'

Harry thought back to Geography lessons, back at his Muggle primary school. 'We learnt loads about the rainforest in school,' he said, 'The teacher was quite obsessed with it. We did this one thing, when we'd been learning about how people survived in rainforests – have you ever heard of a video camera?'

'I know what a camera is,' Ginny said, 'but what's a video?'

'It's a bit like a wizarding picture, because it moves… What happens is, it takes lots and lots of pictures one after the other, and when you string them all together really fast, it looks like it's moving.'

'Like those little children's flip-books?' Ginny asked, trying to understand the idea. 'The ones with lots of pages with little pictures on, and every picture is slightly different, and you flip the pages and it moves?'

Harry nodded. 'Yeah, like them but with more technology,' he said. 'Well, we were using a video camera to film a piece on how people survived in rainforests, and we had groups of about five. One person was the interviewer, and the others were people whose plane had crashed in the rainforest and they'd managed to survive. Only our interviewer was kinda scared, so she said all her lines with this huge grin on her face. Which would have been okay, except that she was saying things like, 'So, how did it feel to see everyone else on the plane mangled beyond belief?'

Ginny burst out laughing. 'Like this?' she asked when she'd managed to control herself, then put a huge cheesy smile on her face. 'So, Harry, you saw the victims of the plane crash, I believe. How did it feel to see their twisted, bloodied bodies mangled beyond belief?'

Harry dissolved into fresh laughter, in which Ginny joined him. 'We couldn't stop laughing on the film,' he said when he could breathe again. 'But of course, we were supposed to be mourning for all the dead people, so we had to make it look like we were crying…'

Ginny spluttered off. 'Oh, fake crying! That reminds me of this thing that happened in the Transfiguration lesson last year, you see, we were learning how to turn a cupcake into a feather…'

Harry listened intently to her story, already feeling much, much better.

~*~

It was almost time for lunch. Draco was lying in bed, staring into nothingness, when his door slid open an inch or two, and Hermione's bushy-haired head peered round it.

'Malfoy?' she asked, uncertainly. 'I just wondered…'

'Get out,' he said, flatly and without trace of emotion.

She said, 'Okay,' and shut the door again.

~*~

**A/N:** Everyone who hated Moping!Harry, rejoice; he's pulled himself together a bit. Everyone who's saying, 'Whoa, he got better kinda… fast, didn't he?' don't worry, it's only a temporary improvement – people tend to flux - and there shall be much more struggle and misery, but without moping.

Now, you're all used to my review-begging by now, I'm sure, but it's extremely difficult to come up with new pleas every week. Thus, this time, I'm going for bribery. Upon sharing Harry's mental image of Ron and Voldemort with my Delta, I was inspired to write a short yet hilarious spin-off based on that. Would you like to read? I'll post it up in my profile – when the review count tops 200.

Yes, I am evil. And reviews seriously make my day. They are my drug of choice, so go on, review!


	10. Empathy

**Chapter 9: Empathy**

**Disclaimer: **Normally, I'd attempt to be amusing with this, but as it is I'm far, far too exhausted. So suffice it to say that I don't own Harry Potter and all related thingies, but J.K Rowling, long may her books be read, does. OK? Good.****

**Thanks for 213 reviews goes to:** storm079, Go10, alexix, heavengurl899(x2), Plaidly Lush, Mandemi, awkward, Orchid6297, willowfairy, samhaincat, La Lucida Luna, KrystyWroth, mesmer, Simpson-Girl, Simrun, Pheonix, Beauty Full, Cuppy(x3), Flexi Lexi, MsLessa, taragoddess.

**A/N:** I think utter, complete and total exhaustion pretty much sums up my mind right now.

However, I've proven that I can actually write what I think is approximately 40 pages in a week – between this and my challenge on the Contra Veritas site – and still manage to produce something that is pretty good quality, at the expense of personal hygiene, ability to spell and sleep. Thankfully, it's my birthday party tomorrow (my actual birthday being on the 13th – my sixteenth!) So I get to kick back and relax. The challenge fic shall be coming shortly, depending how long it takes the 'secret santa' aspect of things to be worked and depending on how the contest works.

Importantly: I changed the timing of that final short scene of the last chapter so it took place at lunchtime rather than night. Only a small change… because even the best of us utterly screw things up sometimes.

Oh, and people who ask when they'll be going to Hogwarts: within a few chapters, hopefully.

It has been a very long and arduous week. Thank you all for your continued support through reviews, and special thanks to Lou, who's been an absolute angel as always with helping me, to Sigma, with apologies for doing she-knows-what in the challenge, and to Pi, for the amusing beating – that's not a typo – and for the dances.

This said, enjoy.

~*~

_No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted._

**_Aesop, _****_(620 BC - 560 BC), The Lion and the Mouse_**

~*~

Hermione closed Draco's door with a sigh, wishing there were more she could do to help. Which was a strange thing to wish, she reflected, for the person who had been her enemy for five years – normally she'd have thought it served him right. 

But then, by what Rita had said, he wasn't the same person who'd teased Ron and bullied Harry and called her a Mudblood. That had been his Fallen side, and now he was human. Like a person with split personalities: it wouldn't be fair to blame one mind for the actions of the other.

But how was she meant to help someone who didn't want to be helped, who _refused _to be helped? She could barely do anything indirectly. Unless she explained to all her friends what Draco was, and got them to appreciate what he had to be going through, which she would never do. Draco wanted it kept secret, and it was a very, very big secret to leak.

Which meant persuading people to act more kindly to him without mentioning half-Fallens. A difficult task, when the person you were trying to evoke sympathy for was Draco Malfoy…

But she would try. Turning, she walked briskly down the stairs, heading for the kitchen. Mrs Weasley would be cooking in there, and not too many people should be around to impede the discussion… Now all she needed to know was what she was going to say.

Passing a pair of flustered members of the Order – 'The trial was a _complete_ disaster, there was _no_ evidence, those men should _never_ have been convicted,' one of them was saying – Hermione reached the kitchen and pushed open the door. A wave of warm air, scented with the smell of cheese and pasta, rushed over her, and she saw Mrs Weasley taking a large casserole dish full of what appeared to be lasagne out of the oven.

'Hi, Hermione,' she said, beaming as she set the dish down on a wooden stand. 'You're down here early. Hungry?'

'Yes, sort of…' Hermione paused, not certain of how to bring the topic up. 'Actually… I wanted to talk to you about something.'

'Go right ahead,' she said warmly, taking out a large spatula and starting to slice the lasagne into generous portions. 'I'm all ears.'

Nervously, Hermione began rubbing the knuckle of her left thumb. 'Well…' she began, unsure of how Mrs Weasley would react, 'Its about Malfoy.'

Mrs Weasley brought the spatula down rather hard. 'What?' she asked, all concern.  'He hasn't… done anything, has he?'

'What? No!' Hermione said, startled, before she realised that she'd have jumped to the exact same conclusion a day or two ago. 'No, no, nothing like that.'

Mrs Weasley frowned, puzzled. Hermione could guess what she was thinking – _what on earth could she want to say about him, if its not something bad?_ – and found it strange and slightly disturbing to realise how much her position had changed.

'Well… go on then, Hermione,' Mrs Weasley said, continuing to slice the lasagne.

Hermione took a breath. 'To put it simply… I guess I'm worried about him.'

Mrs Weasley interrupted, looking more puzzled than ever. 'Why?'

'Because… well, I was trying to consider things from his point of view, and I think… we know he wouldn't come here unless he absolutely had to. Everyone here either hates him or doesn't know him at all…'

Mrs Weasley nodded, frowning. 'Go on.'

'So we know that something bad must have happened to him, something that made it necessary for him to come here,' Hermione said, watching what she said to make sure she didn't mention what she knew about him. 'Then he's surrounded by people who hate him. I mean… even for someone like him, it's not a nice situation.' A flash of inspiration struck her. 'I think it might make him more aggressive too. I mean, in a difficult situation like this, with no one to turn to… any issues he has are likely to come out violently.'

Mrs Weasley looked conflicted for a moment, doubtful and unsure.

'I mean, I'm not saying we should do anything special, just… try to be a bit nicer to him, that's all,' Hermione quickly said. Mrs Weasley seemed hesitant, and then she smiled weakly, shaking her head as if in disbelief.

'You're always championing other's rights, it seems,' she clucked, serving the lasagne onto plates, 'First House Elves, now Draco Malfoy… Alright then, I'll try and be a little nicer to the boy. But _only_ because I don't want him being violent.'

She handed Hermione a plate of lasagne with a smile, and Hermione's heart leapt. Had she really just done it? She grinned, and accepted the plate.

'Thanks,' she said – for more than the lasagne – and took her food to the table, smiling widely. She had just won a minor victory, it seemed.

She began eating the lasagne – it was excellent, as usual – and wondered who she should speak to next. The boys, probably: Ron and Harry. They would be difficult too, and she didn't want to mention Malfoy to Harry in his current mood… But Ron, she could speak to. It would be difficult to persuade him to even consider being _civil _to Malfoy, she knew, but Ron was also the person most likely to argue with him. Harry she could leave till later. Ginny – now she was an idea: if she persuaded her well enough, she might even help…

'Hey,' came a familiar, cheerful voice, and Ginny herself fell into the seat beside her, beaming brightly, with a double helping of lasagne. 'Guess what?'

Hermione never tried to guess. 'What is it?'

'I was just talking to Harry,' Ginny told her, 'and he was almost…well, normal. I don't know why.'

'Normal? How do you mean?' Hermione asked. 'Normal as in…?'

'As in chatting and laughing, yes.' Ginny took a large forkful of lasagne and bit into it.

Hermione felt a smile spread over her face. 'Why? What happened?'

'I don't know,' Ginny replied, chewing thoughtfully. She swallowed. 'And I don't think it's going to be permanent, just…a bright patch. But it's brilliant! It means he's going to get better. And he will get better.'  She sounded determined.

'He will.' Hermione nodded. 'What happened? What did you talk about? Why isn't he here yet, I want to see…'

'He went to the toilet,' Ginny informed her cheekily. 'And we just talked about anything, really. Funny stories, Dean… oh, and romantic affairs with Voldemort.'

Hermione nearly choked on her food. '_What?_'

Ginny laughed. 'I was saying how horrified Ron was, and he couldn't react worse if Dean had been Voldemort, and it kind of spiralled off from there. Absolutely hilarious…'

'Absolutely disturbing, in my opinion,' Hermione shook her head. 'I mean… _Voldemort_… that's just…'

'Hilarious,' Ginny grinned.

Hermione might have had something more to say on the topic, but at that moment, Harry walked in. Hermione looked up, her breath catching in her throat. Was Harry really better? He didn't look it, at first, he just looked the same as usual – distant and detached – but then he looked up, saw them, and smiled, a brave, warm smile, and Hermione beamed back.

He sat with them for lunch – Ron joined them a minute later – and they had an almost normal conversation again. Sometimes, she caught a soft, sad look on his face, but he brightened up again when spoken to. He was _trying_ more, Hermione noted with glee, actually trying to feel better, and she didn't know how long it would last, but it was a start.

And Mrs Weasley actually managed to smile at Draco when she gave him a plate of lasagne.

Hermione glowed with happiness. Things were going _right_.

~*~

After the lunch, Ginny had announced that she was going to write a letter to Dean. Ron, with a brotherly over-protection, had insisted on going with her to ensure she didn't write anything he didn't approve of. This had led to a minor argument between the two, but Ron was far too stubborn and too concerned about her to back down, and even Hermione and Harry hadn't been able to talk him out of it.

So now, the two siblings were off in Ginny's room, probably bickering, leaving Hermione and Harry to chatter the time away. Hermione had instantly demanded what on earth they'd been thinking of when they'd started talking about relationships with Voldemort, which had rapidly led to a competition to discover the most disturbing, insane and humorous couple possible.

'Umbridge and Snape,' Hermione suggested, then almost choked at the thought. 'Oh Merlin, imagine the children…'

'Imagine the psychiatrists fees for giving the children counselling,' Harry remarked. 'Any children with them for parents would be seriously messed up…' He paused for a moment, considering, then his eyes flashed mischievously. 'Trelawney and either Lavender or Parvati,' he declared, whereupon Hermione collapsed, half from giggles, half from horror.

Harry watched this in amusement. 'Just be thankful it wasn't both…' he said, with another grin, which made Hermione even worse.

'You have a disturbed mind,' Hermione informed him when she managed to control herself. Harry shrugged.

'Maybe.'

Hermione frowned, then picked up the topic of conversation. 'Lucius Malfoy and Filch.'

Harry didn't bat an eyelid. 'Draco Malfoy and Filch,' he suggested, which turned Hermione white. 

'I think I'm going to declare you the winner,' she said weakly, making him grin. 'I cannot compete with your… ability to consider the most disturbing things without flinching.'

'Do you bow before my superiority?' Harry asked cheekily.

Hermione remained dignified. 'No, I don't, because I don't see how the ability to consider the most sickening things is superiority.'

He laughed. 'Its superiority in the area of considering sickening things.'

She changed the subject quickly. 'So, Malfoy…' she began, thinking this was as good a leap as any onto the topic. 'Why do you think he's here?'

Harry shrugged. 'Haven't a clue. I've not really thought about it much, to tell the truth.' He looked thoughtful, then laughed. 'Maybe his dad was forcing him into an arranged marriage with Filch.'

Hermione buried her face in a pillow, trying not to scream at the image. 'Any sensible reasons that might actually happen?' she asked eventually.

He considered this. 'No.'

Of course, Hermione knew the answer to her question, but she didn't let on. Deep down, she felt a little guilty at what was basically manipulating her friend… but it was for the good of both the boys, she reminded herself; arguments were beneficial to neither of them.

'Well… something bad must have happened to him,' she hypothesized. 'Something that meant he couldn't stay at his home… something that meant he had to run to the other side of the war for protection…'

Harry frowned. 'Yeah, I guess… It must have been something pretty bad.'

Hermione nodded, glad that he appeared to be in agreement. 'Poor guy…'

He looked at her sharply. 'Did you just pity Malfoy?'

Or not in agreement… 'I guess so,' she replied. 'I mean, things must be difficult for him…'

Harry shrugged.

'And its not like he has any friends here… in fact, its pretty much all enemies…'

Harry appeared to think about this. 'Well, when you put it like that… But he still argues with us, he still fights…'

'What would you do if you had to stay at Malfoy Manor for a few weeks?'

'Die, most probably,' Harry pointed out. 'And I mean that literally. With torture and great pain.'

'You know what I mean!' she said, shaking her head with a smile. 'You'd start fighting with him too. It's defensive…'

Harry looked abashed suddenly. 'Last summer, I guess I did that same thing… with Dudley,' he admitted

'It's a natural thing,' Hermione shrugged. 'Everyone does it… I guess I feel kind of sorry for Malfoy. He must feel awful.'

Harry didn't reply. She glanced at him, realised he looked pensive, and decided to change the topic. He'd probably choose to be nicer on his own, she knew him well enough to predict that much.

Daringly, she tried a risky topic. 'So… you've seemed like you've been a lot better lately…'

Harry stiffened. 'Yeah,' he replied casually, 'I was being stupid before, I guess…'

'You weren't,' she told him, trying to be supportive,' Do you want to talk about anything…?'

'No,' Harry said sharply. 'I'm fine.'

Hermione frowned, not wanting to press the topic, but worried about her friend. If he was still bottling everything up… But where would pushing the issue get her? Precisely nowhere.

She changed the topic again.

~*~

_Dear Dean,_

_Ron's reading this over my shoulder, making sure 'you don't write anything you shouldn't', as he puts it. You know what he's like… So I'm sorry if anything in this letter sounds a little odd._

_How's Spain? I hear it's really hot over there. Sultry. Sticky. Sweaty, even. Just the kind of temperatures you know I love…_

_Oh, and how did that Quidditch mini-tournament go? Bet the Bludgers are sore after getting Beaten so much. Playing with balls is fun, I know, but they should always be treated with care. _

_And while there's always going to be competition over broomsticks – whose is the longest, the most powerful, so on – I always think the real key to being a Quidditch champion is how skilfully you can get the Quaffle through the goal hoops. Or Beat the Bludgers, or catch the Golden Snitch, whichever way you're personally inclined._

Ginny wasn't even halfway through her letter, and already Ron was looking quite sickened.

'If you think I'm letting you send that…' he began, but Ginny cut in, smiling innocently.

'Why, Ron, what's wrong with it?' she asked, opening her eyes wide in surprise. 'All I've done is talk about Quidditch and the weather…'

'You know very well you've filled it with…' Ron glowered, reaching for the right word. 'Hidden meanings.'

Ginny pulled off a passable imitation of guileless confusion. 'What kind of hidden meanings?' she asked. 'Please, dear, sweet brother, explain yourself. Because of course, I'm far too young and innocent to know anything about adult things…'

'Okay, okay, I get your point!' Ron moaned. 'I just don't want you… doing anything stupid, that's all.'

Ginny dropped the innocent act. 'Ron, I am old enough to take care of myself,' she pointed out gently. 'I understand that you worry about me, but reading my private letters is going a little too far, don't you think?'

'No, I consider it a perfectly sensible measure.' Ron defended himself.' How am I to know you're not writing…'

'Ron,' Ginny cut in sharply, 'either you stop looking over my shoulder and let me carry on normally and without sexual innuendo, or the letter will quickly get more graphic.'

Ron looked deeply torn. 'Okay,' he gave in eventually, 'I'll let you write it. Just don't say anything stupid…'

Ginny grinned and gave her brother a hug.' Thanks. And you know I won't. It's not like I can do anything through a letter, is it. Well, I could probably charm the parchment to…'

'Ginny?' Ron cut in, 'Don't push your luck.'

She grinned, promised she wouldn't, and went back to the letter.

~*~

Later that evening, Hermione left the table early after tea – claiming that she wanted to do some studying – and crept slowly up the stairs to Draco's room. She looked around cautiously, checking that no one was approaching on either side. She was safe. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and slipped inside.

'Rita?' she asked, her voice a whisper by accident rather than intent. It was the sneaking around; it made her cautious. She spoke again, in a normal voice this time, 'Rita?'

'Is that you, Hermione?' came Rita's voice. 'Oh, but it feels like I haven't spoken to anyone in decades. Draco's not talking to me,' she added, rather petulantly.

Hermione gave the mirror a sympathetic smile, pushed the door almost shut – she left it open a crack, so she could hear if anyone was coming - and crossed the room. 'Is that because you told me…'

'About Draco being half-Fallen? Yes.' Rita replied, sighing. 'Don't worry yourself about it, dear, he'll get over it as soon as he realised that I did him a favour.'

'Hopefully,' Hermione smiled. It felt rather odd to be talking to her reflection, but she ignored the feeling. 'I can't stay long, he could come back at any minute… Has anything happened? Or is there anything you can tell me?'

Rita appeared to think for a minute. 'He got a letter last night, and he seemed to be spending quite a long time replying,' she remarked eventually.

'Who from?'

'Dunno, I didn't see it,' Rita told her. 'But he left it on his desk…'

Hermione looked uncertain. 'I can't go and read someone's private letters…'

'Yes, you can. Its for his own good, the sweetheart,' Rita replied, 'just take a little look…'

She was conflicted for a moment – should she or shouldn't she? – but at that moment, she heard to her horror the sound of footsteps on the stairs, growing closer. Whose footsteps, whose footsteps? None of her friends – they'd come in a group – and most of the adults went to their rooms a different way, so that meant…

Hermione had barely a second, nowhere near enough time to hide, before Draco Malfoy walked in.

~*~

**A/N:** And if you want to know what happens next, review. I stand, or more probably lie, before you in a state of incredible exhaustion, kept awake only by the workings of miraculous, holy, worshipful caffeine, and beg you to review. And then I fall asleep.

Sleep is good. Reviews are better.


	11. Difficult Times

**Chapter 10: Difficult Times**

**Disclaimer: **I own a large number of gorgeously wondrous new things, thanks to my friends buying me birthday presents. However, they failed to buy me the rights to Harry Potter. Shame on them!

**Thanks for 245 reviews goes to: **Mandemi, Pheonix, willowfairy, btvsgoddess, PinkTribeChick (x2), Awkward, Flexi Lexi, Beauty Full, laterose, Celestial Eclipse, SoshilaDove, Haystack8190, samhaincat, heavengurl899, jules37, KrystyWroth, mutsumi, Plaidly Lush, storm079, Saotoshi, nutmegmercury, Go10, kedda, mesmer, Kaydera, Azn-Sweetie, Hustler, Saotoshi, SycoCallie, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole

**A/N:** Heh, you made me feel… little now, what with the 'You're only sixteen!' comments. Well, technically as I write, only fifteen. 16 tomorrow.

I've had most of my presents, and thanks to everyone reading from real life who's given me one! I've also had an extremely good Parent's Evening, in which my divine twist of fate even the Maths teacher, to whom I'd given in about a quarter of my homework this term, merely commented that I needed to be a little more organised.

I was also in the Latin Speaking competition at my school, and came joint second! Anyone who lives around my area: my photo's going to be in the South Manchester Reporter sometime soon, because I was the only person who wasn't terrified of photographs. Go me.

Anyway, can't think of anything else I need to say. Oh, wait, yes I can. I'm going to be renaming all the chapters thus far soon, because I don't like the names so far. If you have any suggestions for chapter names, drop me a review!

And on to the chapter: enjoy.

~*~

_It is a denial of justice not to stretch out a helping hand to the fallen; that is the common right of humanity. _

**_Seneca (5 BC - 65 AD)_**

~*~

His pale eyes narrowed and he tensed with anger; Hermione, knowing she had no reason for being there, stepped nervously backwards. Damn, why hadn't she chosen a better time to come here, why couldn't she have waited…

Unexpectedly, Rita spoke up. 'Draco, don't get angry…'

'Shut up,' he said, flatly; all the anger was hidden away, leaving nothing but a harsh, fierce edge to his tone.

'She's only trying to…'

'I _said,_' Draco interrupted, eyes flaring, 'shut up.'

Rita did so, and Draco turned his attention back to Hermione, who stood, fearful of his rage, in the corner of the room. She attempted to speak, 'Malfoy, please don't be angry, I'm sorry…'

'_Sorry_ doesn't mean anything,' he hissed, taking a step forward, closer to her. Hermione watched him warily. Was he going to attack her? He couldn't, surely not, he was just trying to be intimidating, to scare her. He wouldn't dare to hurt her, not here, at the Order, surrounded by trained Aurors… 

But none of them were _here_, were they? Here in this room, that was. And the door was shut, and the rooms were all soundproofed, and he was angry, so angry…

'Malfoy, listen to me,' she said, trying to keep her voice steady. 'I was only trying to help you, that's all I wanted to do, and I know I shouldn't have come in your room but I needed to talk to Rita…'

Malfoy laughed, a short, bitter laugh that had nothing of amusement in it. 'That traitor's already told you all my secrets, Mudblood,' he said simply, and Hermione winced at the name. Prejudice, like in the Daily Prophet…

Hermione kept calm. 'I wasn't asking for secrets, I just wanted to know how you were doing,' she explained, backing up even further, to press against the wall. It was cold against her back. 

'It's none of your business,' he spat, stepping closer to her. He was out of place, here, in this normal little room with the amber sunlight shafting through the window. He should have been at the top of a castle, made from the bleakest black stone that existed, atop a remote crag in a thunderstorm with lightening crackling through the air. Angry.

Hermione tried not to be afraid. 'I just wanted to help you,' she pleaded. 'I mean, I know it must be difficult, and all I want to do is…'

'Shut up,' he told her, his voice now rough as his rage built, And Hermione did so. 'I don't _care_ what you want! You have no right to be in my room, whatever reason you're in here. And I don't want your help, Granger. I just want to be left _alone_.'

'Malfoy,' and she knew it was dangerous to press her point, but carried on regardless, 'you need help. You need someone to help you figure things out…'

And his eyes were suddenly infernos of silvery fire. He stepped up to her, tense with anger, and grabbed her arm, his grip painfully tight. Hermione forced herself not to cry out, not to show her fear, because all that ever did was show Malfoy that he was getting to her…

'I do not need help,' he told her, his voice soft as flame and just as dangerous. 'I especially don't need it from a filthy Mudblood like _you_.'

Hermione made herself breathe slowly, not too fast, and tried to ignore her hammering heart as she sought desperately for a way out of the situation. Would he hit her? He was angry enough to… She glanced right and left, saw no escape, and then looked back at him.

And in his eyes she spotted it, just behind the flame, something she knew all too well at this moment: fear. But why? Why was he afraid; he wasn't the one pressed against the wall with a furious enemy in front of him…

Anger. She realised. He was frightened of the anger, too, but in his case it was because he didn't know what it was. Because it was a powerful emotion, and he wasn't used to them, and it scared him…

'Malfoy…' she began uncertainly, noticing his grip on her arm slackening, 'Malfoy, please…'

And his eyes hardened again, the flame freezing to stone. 'Get out,' he spat suddenly, releasing her arm and turning away.

She'd have given anything to hear that from him a minute ago; now she wasn't sure. 'Malfoy…'

'Get out!' he repeated, a roar this time and forceful, and she realised he wouldn't be moved on this. She didn't want to leave him, but… but she had to. She couldn't do anything until he wanted her help.

Biting her lip, she crossed the floor without another word, defeated, and left him alone.

~*~

Sleeping was still difficult. He'd woken at least three times in the night, sweaty from visions of veils and death and screaming.

Soon after dawn, he'd decided he wasn't going to manage any more sleep that night. It was far too early for Mrs Weasley to be making breakfast, but he was hungry. He could always get a sandwich from the kitchen, then find something to do – read a book, perhaps, if he could find any.

Sighing, Harry swung himself out of bed. It was difficult to get the images of his nightmare out of his mind, but he resisted them, trying to think of other things. Like where he could get a book from, for example. Hermione would have some, but she would be asleep and he didn't want to disturb her by going into her room to get a book out. Was there a library here? He didn't know.

He reached the kitchen without meeting anyone, which was unsurprising given the time, but just as his hand was on the doorknob, ready to turn it, he heard voices from inside, and paused.

'How on earth can you stand starting the day without coffee? I can't think without sweet, sweet caffeine in the morning…'

Harry relaxed – it was Tonks' voice – and opened the door, wondering what she could possibly be doing up at this time in the morning, and questioning, too late, who she was talking to.

Because she was talking to Remus Lupin.

There were a few seconds of rather awkward silence, which Harry spent cursing himself for not thinking to see who else was with Tonks. He'd been really angry at Lupin before, which had faded to leave just embarrassment – he'd acted so _stupidly_ – and worry: was Lupin angry, was he upset? Then he remembered his conversation with Ginny yesterday. Damnit, he was probably interrupting something…

'I'll just…' he began, intending to say 'go', but Tonks cut in.

'Harry!' she beamed. 'Come in, what are you standing in the doorway for?'

'Er…' Harry began, unsure. He glanced towards Lupin, as if asking permission, and was relieved and somewhat startled to see his former teacher give a weak smile and a tiny nod. Not angry, then, but Lupin wasn't really the kind of person who got mad easily.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and made his way to the table, strangely timid. Lupin kept his head down and stared at his mug of what appeared to be tea, while Tonks' grin was rather too bright.

'What are you doing down here at this time?' Tonks asked with genuine curiosity. 'I've got to go to the Ministry early, and Remus was keeping me company, but you should be sleeping, it's only five o'clock!'

Harry shrugged. 'I wasn't really tired,' he lied, 'and I felt a bit hungry, so I thought I'd get a sandwich or something…'

Tonks' grin grew suddenly impish; like a child caught eating the sweets it had been forbidden to touch. 'You know, I've been trying to learn cookery spells lately…'

Lupin's head snapped up. 'Cookery spells? I don't think that would be a very good idea…'

'Oh, its just a sandwich,' Tonks said dismissively. 'It's not like I can burn anything this time, is it?'

Lupin looked unconvinced, but didn't argue. Tonks turned to Harry, 'You don't mind me using a spell to make you a sandwich, do you? Some people don't like it… fussy eaters…'

'I don't mind,' Harry said, 'but what do you mean, burn something?'

'Don't worry about it, it was only a little fire.' Tonks said reassuringly. 'Now, let me see… _panumseca_!'

A loaf of bread shot out from nowhere and began to slice itself into pieces neatly on the worktop. Tonks grinned. 'See! I can do it! Ham okay with you, Harry?'

'Sure.'

Tonks muttered another spell. The fridge door blew open so hard it was a wonder it didn't fall off its hinges; a packet of ham shot out, trailing some other unfortunate items behind it, and crashed spectacularly into the far wall in the space of half the second. 

The mess was spectacular. Ham was scattered everywhere; clinging to the walls and ceiling, on the table, on the floor, where it mingled with cracked eggs that had fallen out of the fridge.

There was a blank second in which the three of them absorbed the mess. Then, as if on cue, they all broke into infectious laughter.

Things were rather less awkward after that.

~*~

'Do you know where Harry is? He's not in his room.'

Ginny opened a bleary eye in an attempt to focus on the source of the noise. 'Wha?' she managed.

The figure, which she identified as Hermione, sighed. 'Harry. Do you know where he's got to?'

Ginny blinked, pushing herself up on one elbow. 'What time's it?'

'About half-past seven.' Hermione estimated, to be met with a groan from Ginny, who flopped down again into the warm, cosy bed.

'If he's got any sense, he's hiding from you and your ridiculously early ideas of what time's acceptable to wake people up,' she moaned. 'Let me sleep…'

'Do you want breakfast?' Hermione chided her. 'Come on, lazy, get up. Harry's probably gone to eat, then, if you don't know where he is…'

Ginny made an incoherent grunt, and Hermione left with a sigh. When she finally decided to surface, it was seven forty-five. After getting quickly washed and dressed, it was eight o'clock, and she went downstairs in search of Harry, Hermione and food.

All three were in the kitchen. Her mum wasn't down yet, but Lupin was cooking some sausages in a frying pan, looking happier than usual. Harry and Hermione were bent over the table, reading what appeared to be the Daily Prophet in silence. Hermione was frowning deeply.

'Good morning, Ginny,' Lupin said, looking up at her. He noticed the others' expressions as they read the front page article, and asked, 'Is something wrong?'

'Very wrong,' Hermione said grimly, glancing up from the paper. 'You remember the Hestia Bennett-Edmonds case?'

Ginny's mind went blank, although Lupin seemed to know what she was talking about. 'That was a week or two ago, wasn't it? Has it come to trial already?' he remarked.

'Yesterday. And they were convicted, listen to this.' She began to read from the newspaper. '_The two wizards accused of breaking into the Bennett-Edmond's ancestral home were convicted yesterday on the grounds of attempted burglary. Damien Curtis, 25, and Alan Forsyth, 27, denied the charges, but were found guilty and sentenced to pay a fine of two hundred Galleons each._'

'Convicted?' Lupin looked amazed. 'I thought there wasn't any evidence against them?'

'I didn't even know the Bennett-Edmonds' had been burgled. Ginny remarked. 'Isn't Hestia Bennett-Edmonds the one who does all the volunteer work? I think I read an interview with her in Witch Weekly a month or two ago…'

Hermione nodded. 'Yes, and she actually said publicly that those men shouldn't have been convicted. There was no concrete evidence they'd done it. They were caught on Muggle CCTV cameras in nearby shops, and a neighbour saw some people with similar hair colours entering the property, but they weren't identified properly. It was all circumstantial evidence…'

Puzzled, Ginny sat down beside her. 'But then how did they get convicted, with no evidence? I mean, I know Voldemort's trying to make people prejudiced, but they aren't prejudiced enough to do something like this yet…'

Harry, who'd lapsed into a silence until now, spoke up. 'They probably rigged the trial.'

'I don't know, it'd take a lot of work to twist the judicial system so much…' Lupin frowned. 'Then again, if anyone can, it would be him.'

There was a grim pause as each person there realised the implications of such a control and what Voldemort could use it for. Lupin spoke, eventually, flipping over the sausages with a tired sigh.

'We are living in very difficult times, it seems,' he said.

Ginny fidgeted, uncomfortable in the gloomy air that had descended, and made a flippant remark, 'Very difficult times. And in the future, we'll all have challenges to face and important things to do, but right now, I think the best thing to do would be to eat sausages. Anyone agree?'

Harry and Hermione actually laughed at that, and Lupin appeared amused. 'That could almost be deeply philosophical. Almost.'

The anxious air was broken, and as Lupin served up the sausages, the three Gryffindors fell back into normal teenage chatter. More people began arriving, including Ron, and Mrs Weasley took over the cooking. Lupin left to chatter to some old acquaintance.

The trial was on almost everyone's lips, and Ginny found it difficult to keep Harry and Hermione from worrying about it, though thankfully her brother was too busy eating to worry much. 'Cheer up,' she told them, 'I don't think too many people will believe it. And the Order are going to do something to stop it, aren't they? Things will be fine.'

Still, neither of them really put it to the back of their minds until a loud tapping on the glass heralded the arrival of a pair of large owls. One of them seemed to have a huge bundle of parchment tied to its foot, the other, a dignified tawny owl, carried just one. A cheerful young man leaned over and opened the window, letting the owls fly in.

The tawny owl flew straight to Draco, who held an arm out for it to land on. The other, wobbling slightly from all its letters, landed clumsily between Ron and Ginny, who reached over to relieve the disgruntled bird of its burden.

It was carrying their Hogwarts letters, they soon discovered. Ginny took hers, then passed the others round by the names written on them. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley… and Draco Malfoy. She glanced up, frowning – she didn't want to actually go over there and give it to him. Quickly glancing round to ensure no one was watching too closely, she carefully threw it straight across the table at Draco. However she misjudged her throw, and it hit the owl instead, who hooted loudly and flapped her wings indignantly.

'Hush, Raphael, its only a letter,' Draco told the owl, reaching out with his free hand to give the bird a calming stroke, before throwing a particularly murderous glare at Ginny. She shrank back, feeling guilty. After all, the owl was innocent. Glancing to one side, she saw Hermione looking in the owl's direction with an expression of concern.

'Its okay, the owl's not hurt.' Ginny assured her. 'I was aiming for Malfoy…'

Hermione looked conflicted, her eyes not moving as she tore open her Hogwarts letter. 'It's not that, it's… oh, never mind, I'll talk to you later.'

She took out her letter – the usual uniform and equipment list, together with what appeared to be some information about NEWTs – and started reading. The two boys were barely glancing through the information, it seemed. Ginny turned to hers and tore it open.

Something fell out with a soft thunk onto the table. Something that sparkled golden in the bright sunlight that flooded the kitchen, with vivid red parts that almost seemed to glow.

A _Prefect _badge?

Ron noticed it first. 'You made Prefect?' he asked, grinning. 'Oh, wait till Fred and George hear about this! Oy, Mum, come and look!'

Ginny picked up the badge, feeling a mixture of amazement, pride and concern as Hermione congratulated her. Amazement that she'd been chosen – she hadn't expected it – pride that Dumbledore had thought her worthy, and concern because how on earth could she ever be a Prefect? She broke the rules too often…

A shriek nearly deafened her, and then her mother grabbed her from behind and hugged her so tightly she was afraid she would choke. 

'You're a Prefect!' she cried. 'Oh, Ginny, I'm so proud of you!'

'Mum!' she wailed. 'You're choking me!'

Mrs Weasley relaxed her hold very slightly. 'Sorry, precious, but…' She broke off, sniffing and smiling sappily. Ginny looked round at her beaming friends – except for Harry, who was pushing a sausage around his plate moodily – and sighed, realising that she was in for a lot of unwanted congratulations.

~*~

He'd waited until breakfast was over to read his letter: he didn't want anyone looking at it over his shoulder. So he'd eaten quickly and left for his own room, then closed and locked the door. He'd placed the stack of homework his mother had sent on his desk, noting that Raphael had flown up here in readiness for him and was perched on the back of his chair. Then he crossed to his bed, sitting upon it and opening the letter. 

_My darling Draco,_

_                         I can't begin to say how overjoyed I was to read your letter. You said you didn't understand how 'normal' humans worked; but to me, you sounded perfectly and completely human. _

_And I think the most important piece of advice I can give you is to assure you that, even though emotions maybe difficult and painful now, not all emotions are such. Joy, and hope, and happiness, and peace, and love – for now, they are only words to you, I know, but soon I am sure you will feel them for yourself._

_But enough of my sentimental side: I should be suggesting what you could do. And I know it's difficult for you, Draco. I wish I could be there to help you, instead of being limited to writing letters. They're too slow and conversations are too difficult to hold properly, especially about such a topic as you need help with._

_Which is the crux of my suggestion, really. I don't know how your personality may have changed, now emotions have come into play, but mother's instinct tells me you won't want help from anyone. I possibly don't count under that heading, being nothing but a piece of parchment that knows what you are already. Like a book from the school library! _

_But the only way you can get help is in person, face-to-face with another human being who knows what emotions are and can help you understand them. Trust me, my son, I've thought long and hard about this and it's the only way in which you can get any kind of adequate help. I know many of the people there are your enemies, but Dumbledore has helped you already and would help you again. It may not be the best solution – I'm aware that Dumbledore is a lot older than you are and your headmaster besides – but do consider it, please. You need someone and I can think of no one else who would suffice._

_Don't be angry with me for suggesting this: and of course, you can always ignore my advice if you see fit. I must confess, I worry about you a lot. About whether you're doing alright, about what will happen when your father finds you… Draco, be careful. Write soon and swiftly._

_With all my love, Mother._

He frowned, and set the letter down on the table beside him. He trusted his mother. And that made three people who'd told him to talk to someone about these emotions, Rita and Hermione being the other two. 

But he didn't want help. And the most annoying thing was that he didn't know why. Help was the sensible thing, the logical thing. But with emotions, rationality and logic had little place. 

And even if he did want to talk to someone, Dumbledore wasn't even there most of the time, so he had nobody. But then again…a treacherous tendril of thought reminded him: Granger was willing to help, wasn't she? He could always accept her help. And maybe he ought to follow his mother's advice.

Frustrated, he flung the letter onto his desk and stalked out of the room, heading nowhere.

~*~

**A/N:** Latin translation: 'pamumseca' translates roughly as 'cut, bread'.

Anyway, Hogwarts letters have arrived, and this can only mean that the new term is finally looming on the horizon. I hear you all cheering already.

Now, onto the reviews. It's my sixteenth birthday tomorrow. Guess what I'd like from all of you as presents? That's right, reviews in copious quantities! For the sake of the sweet sixteenth, review!


	12. Her Help

**Chapter 11: Her Help**

**Disclaimer: **Premise:Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. Premise: I am not JK Rowling. If these two premises are true, then I can proceed by valid inference to the conclusion: I do not own Harry Potter. And this is what happens when you unleash a few Monday Lunchtime's worth of Logic/Philosophy on someone.

**Thanks for 274 reviews goes to: **samhaincat, anni0932, Go10, jules37, SoshilaDove, nutmegmercury, Haystack8190, mesmer, KrystyWroth, Pheonix, alka, Mandemi, simrun,  Simpson-Girl, Saotoshi, Lyra Silvertongue2, skygaxing, willowfairy, DracMiony, Mizu Ki, koishii-glory, Hustler, PhAnToM-ChiK, Flexi Lexi, SycoCallie,  Plaidly Lush, MsLessa, IceCristal, Chiinoyami-chan, PinkTribeChick.

**A/N:** Thanks for all the birthday wishes! And all the lovely gifts of reviews. I shall treasure them forever. 

In other news, I spent the book voucher I got in the Latin Speaking Competition. Guess what on? Yes, that well-known book, _Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis_ – or the Latin translation of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone Which is brilliant. And loved a lot.

This chapter was a troublesome one, not because of the writing, but because of the fact that, halfway through the writing, I spilt my Dr. Pepper on my keyboard and afterwards… it didn't exactly _not work_, but what it produced was a string of gibberish. Which meant I had to get a new keyboard. Plus the fact that my Gamma carelessly scheduled her 'Lets watch Finding Nemo at my house!' night on the Friday evening, meaning that this is being uploaded from her house. Thanks to Gamma.

(Oh, and as to the Prefect question – I'm fairly sure that there are two prefects per house per year. One girl and one boy per house from the fifth year, and one girl and one boy from the sixth year. Ginny being a year below the others, it does work out.)

I'm still trying to rename all the previous chapters, having decided I hate the names, so… suggestions, anyone? I'm attempting to write two other stories in addition to Fallen at the moment, so finding the time for renaming all the back chapters is tricky. 

Ah well, enough of me. Here's the chapter, enjoy.

~*~

_When dealing with people, let us remember we are not dealing with creatures of logic. We are dealing with creatures of emotion, creatures bustling with prejudices and motivated by pride and vanity._

**_Dale Carnegie_**

~*~

Malfoy hadn't been at dinner. In fact, none of them had seen him since breakfast.

Hermione was torn between a strange and niggling worry and annoyance at herself for feeling concerned. Malfoy, after all, was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. On top of that, he was…

_Not _a prejudiced, cruel and rude Slytherin, because those were all the things he'd been acting. He still behaved that way, but she suspected that was probably because he didn't know how else to act, after he'd suddenly gained the whole range of human emotions. And there lay a reason to worry about him: there was no telling what he really felt or whether he was coping alright. He might have completely given up – killed himself, even…

It was that worry which had prompted Hermione to offer to tell him of the next day's journey to Diagon Alley, which they'd decided on at dinner. However much she told herself she was being stupid – he wasn't the kind of person to do such a thing – she found herself pushing open the door to his room very cautiously.

Draco was lounging quite carelessly on the bed, a textbook open in front of him, scribbling on a piece of parchment. Rather oddly, from Hermione's point of view, he was wearing a pair of faded jeans, with his top half bare. She'd always seen him in robes before – except for the time when she'd first seen his wings, and there was the answer as to why he was wearing the jeans – he must have been in his Fallen form.

Another thought struck her rather sharply. 'You haven't been flying outside, have you?' she asked. 'Someone could have seen you!'

She realised almost instantly that it probably wasn't a good idea to rebuke him in such a way – he was still angry at her for knowing what he was and trying to help – but to her surprise, he merely paused in his writing and threw an irritated look over his shoulder at her.

'I'm not quite _that _stupid, Granger. I was just stretching them,' he said, and as if to demonstrate, he transformed instantly into his winged form. He had to keep both wings folded: if he'd extended one of them, it would have crashed through the wall. The other would just have brushed the opposite side of the room.

Hermione saw the problem with this instantly. 'How on earth could you stretch them in here?'

'With great difficulty. It involves standing on one side of the room and stretching each wing in turn. I can't wait until I get to Hogwarts and I can fly properly again,' he added bitterly, turning back to his scribblings.

Something was odd, Hermione realised. He was actually talking to her properly. Civilly, even. She decided not to comment on it.

'I came to tell you, we're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow,' she said. He nodded, and shifted his wings a little, but didn't stop his writing. Curiosity began to get the better of her. 'What are you doing?' she queried.

'Arithmancy,' came the reply. Most of Draco was covered by his wings; it was like talking to a heap of feathers with feet at one end and a shock of silver-blonde hair at the other.

Hermione brightened up. 'Oh, are you taking Arithmancy next year too?' she asked, crossing over to peer at his sums.

'No, I hate the subject, I'm just doing this for fun,' he replied sarcastically. 'Why else would I be doing Arithmancy?'

'Good point. Why are you doing it, anyway? These aren't the homework questions, and you certainly don't need extra practice, you were really good last year…'

He brushed aside some silvery hair and looked up, amused. 'Oh, so the queen of the OWL results thinks I'm good at Arithmancy? I'm flattered, Granger, really I am.'

She didn't know whether he was mocking her or being sarcastically flattering, and doubted whether he was quite certain either. After a moment's deliberation, she decided to take it as a straightforward statement.

'Well, you did come second in most of the practice exams Professor Vector set for us,' she pointed out. 'Which doesn't explain why you're doing extra work.'

He shrugged elegantly, which was rather an odd motion when the wings were taken into account. 'I was bored. I thought I might as well spend the time productively.'

She nodded, leaning slightly over his shoulder to see what he'd written. The rows of sums cascaded down the parchment neatly, in exact, regimented rows, to reach their final conclusions at the bottom. Arithmancy was strange; all sums and geometry and algebra that led, neatly, to a magical solution. Sometimes, working through a list of exercises, Hermione could feel the magic behind the numbers, pulsating and twisting, controlled by nothing but sums. It made her feel almost dizzy.

Hermione forced her thoughts away from the sums and back to the boy writing them. Something had changed, something _important_ had changed. Every time she'd spoken to him since Rita had told her what he was – she glanced towards the silent mirror – he'd been harsh to her, insulting and rude and defensive, shoving her away. And now they were having what was almost a conversation. Why? What had prompted it? What was he thinking?

She cast a calculating eye over him, trying to figure things out by his stance. Lying on the bed, trying to look casual – but he was tense. The wings were another part of it, they were protective, like a snail huddling inside its shell. The arm that wasn't writing was tucked tightly against his chest. Again, defensive.

So Draco was still keeping things to himself, but perhaps he was realising that he needed help? His behaviour showed both things – asking for and refusing any help, without saying a word about it. And then, of course, there was the very likely possibility that she was reading the signs all wrong. Hermione's head started to hurt. It was far too confusing – almost anything was possible, here. She simply didn't know enough about him.

But things seemed to be going okay. He wasn't shouting at her to get out of his room, after all, which had to mean something. Perhaps a middle course would be best? She wouldn't offer to help directly – no 'So, tell me what you're feeling' sessions – but she did have an idea that wouldn't be too bad.

'Actually…' Her voice sounded strangely loud after the silence that had fallen, and she broke off again. Draco angled his head to look at her, his quill paused above the parchment, one eyebrow raised questioningly. Hermione flushed slightly, feeling – for no ascertainable reason – slightly stupid.

'Well, I had an idea. About… you know, the emotions and everything. Well, you see, there's a lot of really good books which describe feelings, and I thought if you read some, it might help you figure out what all the emotions are.' She ground to a halt, cursing herself. She couldn't really have expressed it worse if she'd tried, could she? But he was looking at her unnervingly, his face carefully kept blank and his eyes impassive as iron. Defensive.

'Books as in fiction books? I'm assuming _most_ people don't need guides to basic emotions,' he queried at last. 

'Yes, fiction…' Hermione replied, feeling thankful and slightly amazed that he hadn't either gotten angry with her or laughed. 'I mean,  I don't know how useful it'll be… but it could help.' Nervously, she began to rub the knuckle of her thumb.

He paused again, and appeared to be thinking, his head tilted slightly. Hermione wondered again what had prompted him to even consider accepting any kind of help. 'It could be useful,' he conceded eventually. 'I don't have any books, though. You said we're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow, to buy our school things?' She nodded, and he continued. 'Good. I can buy some. I trust you'll advise me as to which to buy?'

She nodded in amazement, and mentally began flicking through books, trying to figure out which ones to suggest. 'I'll try and pick emotional ones. And ones that have good stories too… And I'll have to avoid picking books you've already read. Maybe if I make a list, and you can pick some…?'

'Don't worry about which I've read,' he told her, 'I've only ever read a few of the classics anyway.'

Hermione blinked. 'Only a few books?' she asked incredulously. 'In your whole life?'

He regarded her with amusement, a corner of his mouth curving into a smirk. 'Yes, Granger. People without emotions don't really have much interest in stories, you know. Considering that newspapers contain about the same amount of interest and are actually true.'

Hermione stared at him in shocked amazement. 'But… but books are…' she began, but gave up.

He almost laughed. It was a very little chortle, and as soon as he began he cut himself off, seeming startled. Of course, Hermione thought, he wasn't used to laughing properly.

He appeared to be studying the pattern on the wallpaper, his face turned away from her. 'I've read the classics, for conversational purposes, but nothing else.' He informed her evenly, emotionlessly, and for a moment she wanted to reach out to him, tell him it was _okay_ to laugh, he didn't need to be afraid of that emotion. But she couldn't, could she? He'd push her away.

'You do realise you're going to be reading a lot of books very soon?' she asked, trying to break the awkward moment. 'There's so many… I'll find some good ones.'

He glanced back at her, grey eyes emotionless as a cold pane of glass. 'Do so,' he said.

~*~

'What took you so long?' Ron asked the second Hermione walked into her room. 'You were away ages. He didn't insult you or anything, did he?'

It could only have been five minutes, but that was still far too long to spend simply telling someone about the next day's trip to Diagon Alley. Especially someone who was supposed to be your enemy. Hermione desperately tried to think of an excuse.

'Er, well… he was doing Arithmancy, you see, and it was rather interesting…' she offered, realising even as she said it that it was quite possibly the worst lie she'd ever come up with. She felt her cheeks flush as Ginny raised a sceptical eye from the book she was reading.

'Arithmancy?' she asked incredulously. 'You willingly spent time in the same room as Malfoy because of _sums_? If I didn't know you were a bookworm, I'd think you'd gone mad.'

Ron and Harry snorted. 'Well, now you've returned from watching the Ferret do sums, care to help us think of anything to do?' asked Ron. 'We're bored.'

'Almost makes you wish you were cleaning again, doesn't it?' Hermione asked with a grin, taking a seat next to Ginny on the bed. Her smile was mostly relief – thank goodness for her bookworm reputation, it had saved her from a lot of awkward explanations.

'No!' Ron replied. 'Can't think of anything I'd hate more.' Harry nodded an agreement.

Ginny disagreed, closing her book and looking up at them. 'At least we were doing something. We've absolutely nothing to do now… I'm beginning to wish I'd left some of my homework till the last minute.'

'But then you wouldn't have time to do it properly.' Hermione pointed out. 'With proper research. And the teachers do get a lot stricter as it comes up to the OWL exams… have you two done your homework?' she asked, turning to Ron and Harry. 'All of it?'

'Yes,' Harry said. 'I did it all at the Dursleys'.'

'And you saw me do mine.' Ron reminded her. 'In fact, you forced me to do all mine as soon as you got here.'

'Well, it's best to have it all out of the way,' Hermione said. 'There'll be plenty more soon, when we get back to Hogwarts. Can you believe how fast the time's gone?'

Ginny looked morose. 'And I've been enjoying these holidays. I'm going to get so much work I won't have time to breathe. And Prefect duties! Why couldn't someone else have gotten the badge?'

'Because Dumbledore wants to see how proud Mum has to get before she explodes.' Ron suggested. Harry laughed, but Ginny looked annoyed.

'That's the worst part,' she said miserably, playing with the corner of her book. 'She just gets so excited about it all, its as if we'd discovered a counter-charm for the Unforgivables! I mean, its not that big a deal, there aren't that many girls in my year to choose from…'

Hermione's eyes flickered to Harry, who'd been very quiet throughout the conversation. He was staring moodily at a patch of carpet. Ginny's Prefect position probably wasn't the best thing to discuss, she reflected, casting around for a change of subject.

'Has anyone read any good books lately?' she asked. 'If we're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow, I want to get something good to read… Harry, have you read anything lately?'

He looked slightly startled; he hadn't being paying attention. 'Read? Er, no… there weren't many books at the Dursleys. I read a few things…'

'Well, this book's good.' Ginny said, holding it up so they could see the cover. _Noughts and Crosses_, it read simply, with the author's name and a quote from a Flourish and Blotts reviewer.

Hermione eyed it with interest. 'What's it about?' she asked.

'It's a Muggle book. Set in a world kinda like our own, but really racist. Except that it's the blacks who are considered superior, and white people are second-class, they're called Noughts.  And the blacks are called Crosses, that's where the title comes from. And then there's these two teenagers – one a Nought, one a Cross – who've been friends since they were little, but now they're older they're being forced apart. It's really good.'

Hermione paused to consider this. It seemed quite an ironic choice, in light of the Daily Prophet's attitude, and she briefly wondered if that was why Ginny had chosen it. 'Is it emotive?' she asked. It would be a good one to recommend to Malfoy…

'What?'

'Does it have lots of emotional things in. And descriptions of feelings?' she clarified.

Ginny frowned. 'Yeah, I guess so… it does make you feel things a lot.'

Hermione glanced at the cover again and made a mental note of the author's name. 'Thanks,' she said.

~*~

Draco carefully worked his way through another Arithmancy sum. His wings were still out, carefully folded against his back, and a warm, peaceful feeling soaked into his skin from the feathers. Something he'd been glad of, while he was talking to Granger. 

There was a _wrongness_ about asking for help. Another of these strange emotions that didn't make sense. Help was logically right, yet he didn't want it because it felt so… He wished for the right words to describe it. Like having a thin needle pushed slowly into your stomach. It had been similar to what he'd felt at having to clean up that foul mould in the bathroom, except completely different at the same time.

But the wings had helped him ignore that. He tucked them closer around himself, trying to relish that nice, simple, calm feeling. The writings of earlier people on his race, stored safely in the Malfoy Manor's library, had called it _contentment_.

It got a bit annoying after a time, like too many sweets making a tooth ache. Plus his room had no lock, and anyone could wander in without invitation. Reluctantly, he switched back to human form, closed his Arithmancy books and placed them on his bedside table, before leaning on his pillows with a sigh. Oh, to be _normal _again…

But there wasn't any point wishing for things. He just had to get on with it. And perhaps Hermione could help. He didn't know how good this plan of hers would be, but it was worth a try. _Anything_ was worth a try.

A low hoot distracted him, and he glanced up to see Raphael, perching on the top of his wardrobe, patiently awaiting his letter. He felt a twinge of guilt. His mother would be waiting for him to write back…

Pushing himself upright, he reached for the quill and inkpot he'd just been using to do Arithmancy, and found a blank piece of parchment. He leant back on his pillows, and began to write in the formal, slightly old-fashioned style of writing he'd learnt to use.

_Mother, _

_          You were quite correct in assuming that I didn't want help with my problem. I don't understand why, but it feels extremely uncomfortable to even consider the prospect of discussing it, and actually speaking about it is difficult. (It is easier, I think, to write things such as these in a letter, though why I am uncertain.)_

_Professor Dumbledore has not been at the Headquarters recently, being busy with other matters, but it may please you to know that I have found someone with whom it may be possible to discuss such difficulties as mine. Do you recall the name of Hermione Granger? She's been my enemy since the beginning of Hogwarts, of course. But she walked in on me when I was in my Fallen form, and ever since she's been pestering me with offers of help._

_It's difficult to know what to do. My mind knows that the best thing to do is to ask for help, but these emotions won't let me, they keep me from doing what I want to. One thing I have discovered is that they're completely irrational. As it is, I couldn't even ask for help – all I could do was act civilly and accept what she offered._

_It's all still very strange and abnormal. None of it makes any sense._

_Draco._

He rolled the letter up, and Raphael glided softly down from the wardrobe, holding out her leg for the letter. Draco tied the parchment securely to the bird's leg, and carried her to the window. With a soft, low hoot – almost sympathetic – Raphael took off, flying swiftly away.

Draco hadn't even turned around before Rita spoke.

'So, are you still mad at me?' the mirror asked tentatively.

Draco tensed, his jaw setting hard and severe. 'Yes,' he said shortly.

Rita sighed, an odd sound, like fine paper being drawn over glass. 'Why?' she asked. 'You have to understand now. I only did it to help you, sweetheart. And if I hadn't, things probably wouldn't have turned out so well.'

He didn't turn away from the window, staring out after Raphael. 'You think they've turned out well? The only person I can turn to for help is a filthy Mud-' He couldn't finish the word, oddly. There was another wrong emotion attached to it 'Muggleborn, who's been my enemy for years, and you think that's turned out well?'

'It could have turned out a lot worse.' Rita pointed out gently.

'It could have,' he conceded. 'But that doesn't change the fact that you betrayed me. To an enemy, no less.'

'Draco, I only did what was best for you…' Rita pleaded. 'I never meant…'

She trailed of, into an awkward silence. Draco threw one glare at her; it was cold, and harsh, and dark. Then he turned abruptly, stalked back to his bed, and pulled out some more Arithmancy.

At one point, he thought he heard a glassy sob, but put it down to his imagination. Mirrors didn't cry.

~*~

**A/N:**  Noughts and Crosses, the book Ginny was reading, does actually exist. The author's name is Malorie Blackman, and if any of you think it sounds interesting, it has my recommendation!

Poor Rita. Anyway, that's all for this week! Next week comes Diagon Alley, and then what you've all been pestering me for – the Return to Hogwarts. If you leave me plenty of reviews, I'll even write a Sorting Hat song. Because you know you want one! So review!


	13. Living Web

**Chapter 12: Living Web**

**Disclaimer:** J K Rowling owns Harry Potter, and a lot of money too, the annoyingly wealthy woman. I want money. Think I could persuade her to give me some?

**Thanks for 308 reviews goes to:** Pheonix, Simpson-Girl, mesmer, jules37, DracMione, samhaincat, Haystack8190, Lyra Silvertongue2, Awkward, KrystyWroth, Flexi Lexi, SycoCallie, btvsgoddess, alka, Laterose, Mandemi, Afrael2, Hustler, Chiinoyami-chan, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole, storm039, Vfoxy713, ladymistress, PinkTribeChick, GryffindorBabe2, heavengurl899, IceCristal, Ar-Zimraphel, food-luva, draconas, GraceOfTheFallenMuse, kessi1011, dead dude walking, willowfairy.

**A/N:** Argh, rough week. I currently have two stories batting around in my head in addition to Fallen - which will be coming soon to a computer near you – and both contain pretty miserably characters – I won't extrapolate, it would ruin the stories. The stories are lovely, and I adore them to bits, but the downside of having a large-ish bundle of miserable characters in your head is something I'm going to term, 'emphatic resonance'. Basically, when I get a little upset over something, due to the characters, I end up getting _more upset_ than I ought to be. Which, of course, is extremely annoying not only for me but for my friends. Who all get huggles and chocolate (special vegan chocolate for you, doce!) for putting up with me.

Enough of me, however, onto other matters. I have a **website** looming on the horizon – a couple of friends got their own and, being wonderful people, gave me a subdomain. Thanks loads! It's going to be a home to Fallen, with numerous little extras – any one-shots I do based on it, perhaps a long explanation of the Fallen, some interesting snippets – anything I can think of to put on it, as well as some of my original fiction. I'll keep you updated.

People who are impatient for some romance had better get some more patience. I can promise that they will become closer soon, however, romance is some way off. It's going to be a very, very long story, and there will be plenty of time after they get together to enjoy the sweet yumminess of Draco and Hermione love. Until then, patience!

Also, remember the D/Hr Challenge fic a few weeks ago? The period of anonymity is now over, so I can post the fic I wrote! It's going up at the same time as this, so look for That Which Could Never Be in my profile. Also, you may note that all the chapter names on Fallen will be changing very shortly.

And that's about all. Enjoy!

~*~

_Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. _

**_Chief Seattle_**

~*~

'Now, it should be safer this year than it would have been last year,' Mrs Weasley was saying, as the group of teenagers and adults stood assembled in the hallway, beside the blank patch on the wall where the portrait of Sirius' mother had once hung. 'Everyone knows You-Know-Who is back, so they'll be watching out for any suspicious activity. But I want us all to stay together, there's safety in numbers. And don't get into any enclosed spaces, stay in the open.'

They all nodded, with the exception of Draco, who merely raised an eyebrow. Hermione watched him surreptitiously. He couldn't be intending to go off on his own, could he? It was far too dangerous, with his father looking for him… but no, she was making wild hypotheses. Draco was sensible, he wouldn't even think of putting himself in danger…

'Hermione?' Mrs Weasley's voice cut into her thoughts. 'Do you have your money?'

'What?' she asked. 'Oh… oh, yes, my parents sent me plenty this morning. I'll have to get it changed at Gringotts, though…'

'That's alright.' Mrs Weasley smiled. 'Should we go to Gringotts first?'

Mr Weasley, who was standing near the back of the group beside Lupin, nodded. 'We all need to get money, unless anyone thinks we should stop at the Leaky Cauldron for a drink first?'

'We should go after the shopping.' Tonks suggested. 'Or we could get ice cream, it looks hot today.' It did; though the hallway itself was grim and dark, the sun shone cheerfully outside, casting determined beams of gold into the house. 

Ginny grinned at the idea. 'Oh, _please_, Mum?' she begged. 'It's been ages since I last had ice cream…'

'I'll consider it.' Mrs Weasley replied with an indulgent, proud smile. 'You deserve a treat for becoming Prefect – oh, I almost forgot! I _have_ to buy you a gift, is there anything you'd like?'

'For becoming Prefect?' Ginny asked, and Mrs Weasley nodded proudly. Ginny tipped her head on one side, getting the slightly detached look that came over her whenever she was thinking hard. 'I don't know…'

'Get a broomstick.' Ron suggested, at which Mrs Weasley looked doubtful. 'You'll need one if you're going to be on the Quidditch team…'

But Ginny shook her head. 'Fred and George said they'd buy me one if I make the team.'

'_When_ you make the team.' Ron cut in, and Harry nodded in agreement. Ginny flushed slightly with pleasure, and carried on.

'And if I don't get on it, I won't need a really good broomstick anyway. The school ones are good enough for messing around on…' She paused. 'What do you think I should get?'

Hermione thought about it. 'An owl, perhaps?' she suggested.

'I don't need one, I just use my friends', or one of the school owls,' Ginny pointed out. 'And most of the time I'm just replying to someone else's letter, which means I can use their owl. I could get an animal, though…'

Draco slouched irritably against the wall, drawing Hermione's glance to him. She quickly ignored him, looking away. 'You aren't really a toad person. A cat, perhaps? Crookshanks could use some company too…'

'And cats aren't too expensive.' Mrs Weasley pointed out hopefully.

Ginny appeared to like the idea. 'I wanted a cat when I was younger,' she remarked, 'only Mum would never let me have one.'

'Not while Bill was at home; he was allergic.' Mrs Weasley said. 'And it is so tiring to keep casting cleaning charms every day… It wouldn't be such a problem now he's living in Egypt, as long as you keep it outside when he comes to stay.'

'I will,' Ginny promised with a grin. 'Can I really have one?'

'Of course, if Arthur agrees. Arthur?' Mrs Weasley asked. Mr Weasley looked up sharply; he'd been engaged in conversation with Lupin.

'What is it?'

'We're getting Ginny a cat, as a present for becoming Prefect,' she explained patiently to her husband. 'Is that alright?'

'Why, yes, dear, of course.' Mr Weasley replied, still looking rather startled, and Ginny beamed.

They finally set off. They were walking to Diagon Alley; it was only ten minutes away through the streets of London. Ginny spent most of the time in a daze, daydreaming of cats. Harry and Ron were discussing Quidditch again. Mrs Weasley and her husband were leading the way, making sure no one got lost, while Tonks and Lupin were strolling along, chattering about nothing very much, and enjoying the warm summer sunshine.

Which left Hermione and Draco. They were near the rear of the group, but they couldn't talk – Tonks and Lupin were behind them and would notice, and probably say something about it, which would attract the others' attention. They would be suspicious – especially Mrs Weasley, who had started being nicer to Draco after Hermione had spoken to her, but still didn't trust the boy.

Hermione reached into the pocket of her robes and toyed with the edge of a carefully rolled scroll of parchment, one that she'd spent almost an hour working on the night before. She must have read hundreds of books in her life, and recommended them to friends, but when it came to choosing books to illustrate emotion to someone who'd never felt them before… it was difficult.

But she'd done it, and now all that remained was to actually give the thing to him. She'd tried to get it to him that morning, but Mrs Weasley had wanted to get them all out early and, although Hermione had seen Draco at breakfast, she hadn't been able to speak to him.

And she couldn't simply go and give it to him. Tonks and Lupin were behind them, and they'd certainly see her give Draco the parchment and be interested in what it was. Certainly, there wasn't anything wrong with a list of book recommendations, but it might cause a few raised eyebrows, and questions from Harry and Ron later. Tonks wouldn't care, neither would Lupin or Mr Weasley, but the rest would find it suspicious. She was supposed to hate Malfoy. True, she could do whatever she wanted, but it would cause awkward questions…

Which meant she needed an excuse to get near enough to pass it to him. She glanced sideways; estimated the distance between them… it _would_ work. Hermione took the piece of parchment out of her pocket, hid it in her hand, and timed the moment carefully. The wrong second, the wrong angle…

_Now_. Carefully she pretended to slip sideways, straight into Malfoy, the two of them toppling to the ground. The world, for an instant as she fell, was a muddled mix of sensations, of up and down, the ground twisting away from her until she met it with a crash. He cursed from somewhere above her; she located his hand, shoved the parchment into it, felt him grip it tightly, then pushed herself sideways and away from him, feeling quite proud. It had worked.

'Hermione?' came Ron's voice. 'Are you okay?'

'Yes, I'm fine, I just slipped…' She looked up at Ron and Harry, who were glaring at Draco as though he'd been personally responsibly for Hermione's fall. Draco scowled back at them, then at Hermione.

'Watch it, Granger,' he spat, and Hermione realised that he was playing along. She scowled back.

'I didn't exactly choose to fall over, you know,' she replied – even though he knew she had – and got up with the help of Harry's offered hand. 'Thanks, Harry.'

'It's okay.'

They carried on in the same pattern as before.

~*~

About half an hour later, having gathered their money, the group emerged from Gringotts into a busy, noisy Diagon Alley. Witches and wizards bustled to and fro, carrying packages, potion ingredients, shouting children, shopping bags and mysterious parcels. There was a hurried feel to the air, in spite of the warm summer sun that should have imposed a lazy, sleepy feel on the place. There was simply too much to do.

Draco watched them all, frowning and feeling strangely misplaced. It was the first time he'd been among so many people since he'd become human, and there were far too many of them, their minds far too complex. Before, when his mind had been fully Fallen, they'd been lower life-forms, bound by their silly emotions and feelings… now he was one of them. If life was a game, he was playing the same way they were – except he didn't know half the rules.

'Deirdre wanna go _home_!' came a child's miserable cry as the group pushed their way through the crowd. The child's mother, looking flustered and worried, bent down to placate her.

'It's okay, dear, we'll go home as soon as we've bought Daddy a…'

She was interrupted as the child broke into tears. 'Deirdre wanna go home _now_!'

Draco watched with interest. He had seen crying, of course, though hadn't experienced what it felt like. Was it soft or harsh? Gentle or painful? Did it make you feel better or worse? How could you describe it… and was it even the same all the time? It couldn't be – this child was practically screaming, yet he'd seen girls crying softly, almost silently. Sometimes because of things he'd done or said to them.

And that made him feel something too, a deep down twist, like a huge bronze bell chiming a painfully wrong note. Of course it was wrong. Fallen minds thrived on doing wrong; all their instincts led them to do it. He knew that making people cry was wrong. As a Fallen, he had done it often. And humans also did it, he'd seen them, knew they were capable of doing bad things, horrible, cruel things. So why, he wondered, did he feel as if, at that moment, he couldn't have brought himself to make someone cry?

He wanted to carry on watching the girl and her mother, but couldn't; the mass of people jostled them along into Flourish and Blotts and he lost sight of them.

The bookshop was quieter than outside, but nonetheless still busy. Draco glanced around the clean, bright room, made colourful by the rainbow spines of a hundred books, and realised that quite a large number of people were staring at him, their conversations fallen silent. Of course: the Malfoy heir had just entered a public place in the company of half the Order of the Phoenix. Lucius might know where he was spending his holiday, but the public didn't.

It didn't matter what they thought. Besides, he was used to stares. He shrugged them off, one sweep of his cold grey eyes turning away the gazes of all but the most curious. Draco took out his school book list and Hermione's suggestions, read them through, and began looking.

He listened to snatches of conversation as he made his way around the shelves, paying attention to the nuances of tone in each voice, nuances that he'd been taught to read as though their meanings were being screamed in his ear. He had never before truly appreciated the feelings behind them.

'I say, have you read that new book by… oh, who was it now? Surely you remember, blonde witch with the frizzy hair…'

'But you have to appreciate the importance of the Greek philosophers to the wizarding society at that time. I mean, Socrates alone…'

'Well, I don't care what you think, but my Galleons are on the Caerphilly Catapults.'

'Did you hear about that break-in at the Bennett-Jones' manor? The men who did it have been convicted, I heard – and serve them right too!'

Draco wandered round the shelves, listening and browsing the titles. He collected all his schoolbooks, all the suggestions of Hermione's he could find – eight – and a book on Arithmancy that caught his interest. He had easily the largest book pile of anyone there – he needed two bags to carry them in.

They left the bookshop a few minutes later, and went on to collect all the little necessities they needed – quills and parchment, potions supplies and a new cauldron for Hermione. New robes, of course, and he spent quite some time with Madame Malkin choosing about five new ones. He'd left all of his behind at the Manor, and while his mother could send them by owl, she could only send one at a time. Besides, he discovered that he liked buying new robes.

The time passed surprisingly quickly. All too soon, he found his arms filled with bags and his pockets lightened of the gold Galleons that he'd taken out of his personal account – it had been quite fortunate that he had one, because he couldn't have taken money out of the family account, not with Lucius on his trail. The last thing to buy was Ginny's cat.

The pet store was dark, with a strangely soft texture to the air, as if with every movement you made you were brushing against a cat's fur or an owl's feathers. Toads croaked in a corner, cats prowled out their territories in the dim alleyways of the floor, and owls haunted the rafters like ghosts.

Ginny seemed to spend an age deciding, playing with every single cat in turn. Draco leant against a wall and watched. Hermione was helping Ginny to choose, sitting cross-legged on the floor and playing with two cats at once, giving advice ('You don't want one that fights with the other cats, remember, he or she will have to get on with Crookshanks and the other cats in Gryffindor.' and 'You should choose one that's healthy and active.') Was there no one she didn't offer help to?

Harry and Ron were sitting on one side, absently playing with a couple of kittens while they chattered spasmodically. He turned his attention to the adults, who were talking to the man who owned the shop – apparently an old friend of Tonks'.

'Will, you never told me you were going to take over this place! When was the last time we met?' Tonks was asking.

'Three years ago?' the man replied, frowning. He looked around at the other adults. 'My name's Will, by the way. Will Barnes. Pleasure to meet you all.'

Tonks looked momentarily ashamed. 'Sorry, forgot my manners. OK, Will this is Remus, and this is Molly and her husband Arthur…'

There was a general shaking of hands. 'Have I met you before?' Mr Weasley asked. 'You look rather familiar…'

'Can't say I remember…' Will frowned. 'We probably have, though, I'm terrible at remembering faces. So, who's the cat for then?'

Draco's attention was distracted by a tiny mew from his feet, and the commanding bump of a small head against his shin. He looked down into the pure blue eyes of a Siamese cat, who regarded him imperiously and mewed again before rubbing against his legs.

He couldn't stop the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, for some reason. After all, it was only a cat that wanted some attention. But it was sweet, somehow, and amusing in the authoritative way it waited for him to stroke it. Deciding to oblige, he bent to floor level and stroked its soft fur. The cat started purring as he did so.

Half a minute later, when his hand was beginning to tire, Ginny and Hermione's laughter cut into the general background noise of the shop. The Siamese sat upright suddenly, eyes snapping open, and with a tiny mew ran away from Draco without so much as a backward glance, to leap dramatically into Ginny's lap. Draco felt inexplicably slighted.

'Hello, little kitty.' Ginny cooed. 'Oh, Hermione, look at her eyes, aren't they gorgeous?'

Hermione agreed. Ginny started stroking the cat, who curled up and basked on her lap. When Ginny paused in her stroking to say something to Hermione, the little cat batted her hand with its paw, to keep Ginny going. 

'She's very pretty.' Hermione was saying. 'And healthy, too, not to mention I don't think she's more than a year old.'

'She's eleven months exactly.' said Will, who had come up behind them suddenly. 'Completely housetrained, domesticated, and the rest. Pedigree, too. Pure Siamese.'

'Does she have a name?' asked Ginny.

'No, we don't normally name them unless they've been here for years.' Will replied, bending down to scratch the cat's ears. 'We nickname them though. This one's the Mad Princess, because most of them time she's quite demanding – she doesn't _beg_ for you to stroke her or _ask_ you, she _orders_ you. But then sometimes she goes a little insane. Acts like a kitten on catnip.' He grinned. 'She's adorable, really, a real sweetie. Very loving, too, she gets attached to anyone.'

Ginny considered this for a moment, stroking the cat's silky fur, then looked down into its sapphire eyes and grinned. 'The Mad Princess, is she? I shall call her Kassyndra,' she announced.

Draco could see the mythological connection instantly – Cassandra, the Trojan princess who everyone had believed to be mad – and by the realisation on Hermione's face, she obviously saw it too. 'Good name,' she congratulated Ginny, but Ron obviously had other thoughts.

'Kassyndra? That's almost as bad as Pigwidgeon,' he told her. 'Can't you give it a nice normal name, like Sapphire or something?'

'I don't know, Kassyndra's quite nice…' said Harry slowly. 'Perhaps you could shorten it? Call her Kass or Kassy or something…'

Ginny considered this. 'Kass.' She said firmly, then smiled down at her new pet. 'Hello, Kass.'

Kass mewed and curled up tighter on her lap, pawing at her to carry on stroking.

~*~

Fifteen minutes later, when Kass and all the things Will assured them were completely necessary for the proper care of a cat have been paid for, the group gathered in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. It was busy, but they managed to find two tables next to each other that were empty, and pushed them together to make one large table where everyone could just fit, if they tried. Draco found himself shoved into the gap between the adults and the Gryffindors. He didn't belong to either group, after all, though Hermione did give him a sympathetic half-smile before leaning over Ron's shoulder to pour over the menu.

'They have too many flavours,' Ron moaned, 'how on earth am I meant to choose?'

Somehow he managed, as did everyone else after agonising over their choices. Draco had chosen a plain, simple chocolate, the most boring thing on the menu except for vanilla. The others had exciting flavours, drizzled with caramel and drenched in sauces, painted in bright, vivid colours and filled with flavour. Tonks, feeling daring, had ordered the largest sundae in the shop and challenged Lupin to split it with her.

Draco reached into his bag and pulled out a book at random, with the odd feeling that, for all intents and purposes, he wasn't really there at all. He'd never been inside a Pensive, but he'd heard accounts of it. The events around you carrying on as though you weren't there at all… the difference being that he was there. Hermione kept glancing at him, and even smiled when she saw that he was reading one of the books he'd bought. He didn't return the smile.

He concentrated on the book. It appeared to be a collection of famous wizarding stories for children – How the Dragon got his Flame and similar things – but rewritten for adults, with a lot more depth. He'd heard of most of the stories – they were general knowledge – but never read them before, and the new twists on the story were interesting.

Draco began, half-consciously, to dissect the writer's style and techniques as he read the first story. Third person limited, past tense. Some particularly nice twists on an old story, he thought, and he appreciated the particularly nice descriptions that speckled the page. That was how he'd read books before. Analytically, like someone looking at a work of art and discussing the elegance of a paint stroke.

And then the short story began to build into its climax, and just as the young witch who was the story's protagonist was on the brink of death, her attempt to save the dragon doomed to failure, Draco realised he wasn't just analysing the story any more. He was feeling things, things that it didn't make any sense to feel. Fear, for example, or he thought it was fear. He felt cold, and his heart beat faster, and his breath was shorter and quicker, all of which were hallmarks of that particular emotion.

But why should he be afraid? Nothing was threatening him; nothing was about to hurt him. But he was afraid nonetheless, and he realised; he was afraid for the little girl in the story. That was silly. She wasn't even real. But he feared her death anyway, feared it as much as she herself did…

White-faced, he closed the book firmly, feeling strangely shaken by this irrational emotion. Did books do that to everyone? Why on earth would people want to read things that made them feel bad? Humans, these creatures of emotion and passion, were completely nonsensical!

'Dean!'

A shout diverted his attention, and he looked up, seeking for something that would dissipate the strangeness of that emotion, return him to sanity. The shouter was Ginny, who had leapt to her feet – carefully cradling Kass in her arms – fixing her eyes on a point in the crows. 'Oy, Dean!' she shouted again.

'Ginny!' came an answering shout, and Dean Thomas pushed his way out of the crowd, beaming from ear to ear. 'You didn't tell me you'd be here today!'

'I didn't know till yesterday – hey, are you with anyone? Come sit down with us!'

Draco looked between the two and, prompted by splinters of memory and the look on Ginny's face, quickly concluded that they were going out. His gaze flickered to Ron, whose jaw seemed to be set hard and his eyes fixed firmly ahead. This should be interesting…

Dean seemed to notice Ron too. He looked momentarily flustered and said, 'Er… hi, Ron…'

Harry jabbed Ron in the ribs with his elbow, giving him a meaningful look. Ron sighed almost inaudibly. 'Hi, Dean.'

This seemed to satisfy some requirement in the complicated rigmarole of dating the youngest Weasley. Dean sat down next to Ginny, and with a wicked smile, stole some of her ice cream.

Draco listened to Ginny telling him off, and Dean's soft fussing over Kass when Ginny introduced him to her, and Ron's slightly stilted conversation, and Harry's quiet remarks, and Hermione's glowing friendliness. A complex web of ever-changing interactions, the kind of web he'd studied when his mind had been Fallen, the kind of web he had to be part of as a human, but had no idea, absolutely no idea how.

~*~

**A/N:** Well, that's another chapter done – and guess what comes next week? Yes, its what you've all been waiting for – the return to Hogwarts! Now, I want everyone's opinion – should there or should there not be a Sorting Hat song? It's up to you. You have the power – use it! And, while you're using the power, you could always drop me a review! Hint, hint.


	14. Outcast

**Chapter 13: Outcast**

**Disclaimer:** They're mine! All mine! My own, my precioussss… Ahem. Apologies for the Gollum moment, and as soon as I have my Inner-Gollum under control, I shall declare that in fact, I don't own my preciouses; they are JK Rowlings's preciouses…

**Thanks for 351 reviews goes to:** awkward, skygazing, Ar-Zimraphel, SilverTears13, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole, mesmer, Go10, draconas, kessi1011, Simpson-Girl, Orchid6297, storm079, btvsgoddess, alka, Laterose, Simrun, Vfoxy713, Sam8,  jules37, Arafel2, Shadow Slytherin, Paganicewand, willowfairy, samhaincat, jaderabbit, nn, JoeBob1379 (x10), Morgana-Irish, MsLessa, Flexi Lexi, SycoCallie, KrystyWroth, Saotoshi.

**A/N:** First off, **_IMPORTANT!_** Some people have left reviews asking to take various things from this story. Here's the ruling: You **may** take quotes for your profile, to go in your story, etc, but you **must give credit** to myself and this story (like I do in the quotes I put at the start of each chapter, for example) Obviously if you're using it in a fanfic, it would rather spoil the flow if you put the credit in mid-story, so put the credit in your A/N. You don't have to tell me if you're borrowing a quote, as long as you give credit, but I'd like to know. I might even go and read it.

However, if you want to borrow a piece of the plot, an original character, etc, **please e-mail me and ask me first**! My email is in my profile. I'm very likely to give the go-ahead (the only thing I can think of that I wouldn't allow people to use is the concept of Fallens and half-Fallens, unless they were writing a sidestory to Fallen) as long as credit was given, so please ask me first! 

That out of the way: this chapter has been Hell, seriously. It takes the prize for 'latest finish' being about 9pm on the day in question, and actual update within half an hour of midnight. As such, it's only had one betaing, so if you spot any errors do point them out! The reasons for it being Hell were: the finishing of a short original on Sunday and the subsequent massive stress of showing my parents/teacher (the story will be up for you lot to read soon), a dance competition on Tuesday (if I ever hear Toxic again I will murder Britney), breaking up on Wednesday, having to sleep in till midday on Thursday (first day of the holidays tradition) and a nasty fall down the stairs that has left my back in considerable pain.

In spite of all that, I like this chapter muchly. It's the Return to Hogwarts! And the Sorting Hat song (which most people wanted, so I wrote one. And people who worried the chapter would end up shorter than usual: it's actually a page over average _without_ the song) Celebrate! Plus, it has the introduction of four original characters who all have their part to play in the plot. You don't get to see too much of them yet, but they're there. It's one of the things I love about Fallen, as its book length, I get to bring in and really develop some originals, as well as tinkering with the old favourites. Some of the things I have planned for some of the oldies… Ah, but you'll have to wait and see, won't you?

I have rambled enough, for now. Oh, no wait, one more thing to say. All of the people Sorted are real people: mostly my betas (with the exception of Joshua, who was there for the sheer joy of making him a Slytherin). The only beta not there is my Xi, because I don't know her real name. The choice of houses was, in most cases, random.

And now I really have rambled enough! Enjoy!

~*~

_To be alone is to be different, to be different is to be alone_

**_Suzanne Gordon, Lonely in America, 1976_**

~*~

'Mum! Not now, my friends are watching… are you _trying_ to embarrass me?'

'Did you have a good summer? We went to Spain, it was boiling hot! And there was this really cute Muggle boy… come on, I'll tell you all about it!'

'Now, don't forget to write every week, and do your homework, and for goodness' sake please don't do anything involving Dungbombs again…'

Hermione stumbled through the barrier onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters, a vivid, noisy scene appearing before her. Parents said their goodbyes, first years looked around nervously and clung to their trunks, and old friends whooped and shouted as they met up again.

She wheeled her trolley over to where Ron and Harry were waiting for her, leaning on their cases and chattering cheerfully. Behind her, Ginny pushed through the barrier.

'Ginny!' someone screamed, running up and hugging the redhead. 'How are you? Oh, you simply must come and meet my sister, she's starting Hogwarts this year and she's really nervous, come on, you'll love her…'

Ginny allowed herself to be dragged off, calling an, 'I'll see you on the train!' to the others. No sooner had she gone then Lavender and Parvati turned up, grinning.

'Hermione!' Lavender beamed. 'How are you? You look pale, you haven't been ill, have you?'

Hermione glanced down at her hands, realising that they did seem rather white. 'No, I've just been inside most of the summer.'

'How could you stand it?' Parvati asked. 'It's been boiling!'

Lavender didn't allow her time to answer. 'So, is it true?' she asked, eyes shining.

Hermione, however, was lost. 'Is what true?' she asked, puzzled.

'The _rumour_!' Lavender replied. 'About Draco Malfoy? Staying at the Order?'

'What? Oh, that. Yes, he was…'

Lavender and Parvati let out identical little gasps. 'Oh, now you're talking serious news.' Parvati said incredulously. 'The Draco Malfoy? Staying at the actual Order of the Phoenix? Hermione, you are sitting down right here and you are telling us absolutely everything you know about this.'

She frowned. 'I don't…'

'Oh, come on Hermione!' Lavender pleaded. 'Everyone's been talking about it for ages! When he first vanished, everyone thought he'd been kidnapped or something, but this is so much more interesting now that he actually _chose_ to run away. And to the Order!'

Parvati nodded solemnly. 'The Slytherins – you know, the _bad_ Slytherins – have sworn to severe all ties with him if he really has changed sides. You know, stop talking to him, stop being friends with him or anything like that.'

'_Has_ he changed sides?' Lavender asked enthusiastically. 'And why?'

She couldn't answer without telling them about half-Fallens, and she couldn't do that. 'I think he's changed sides,' she said carefully. 'At least, I don't think he's on their side anymore. I'm not sure if he's on ours, he could just be neutral.'

Lavender and Parvati shared a glance. 'Neutral, that's an angle I hadn't considered…' Lavender said slowly. 'What do you think the Slytherins will say to that?'

'They'll either try to convert him back or turn their backs on him like they're planning to.' Parvati said thoughtfully. 'They might allow the other neutrally-inclined Slytherins to socialise with him though…'

'Allow them?' Hermione frowned. 'You mean, they'd stop them speaking to him if he were on our side? That's…' She struggled for a word. 'Impossible, you can't just stop someone from having any friends…'

'You can if you're a Slytherin.' Parvati said darkly. 'You just say, 'Don't be friends with Malfoy or we'll curse you so badly you'll be in the Hospital Wing for years.'

'But that's… wrong!' Hermione protested.

'Slytherins work differently.' Lavender shrugged. 'Anyway, back to Malfoy, is he really as horrible as he acts?'

Again, Hermione had to consider how much of the truth to tell. 'No.' she said at last. 'I didn't speak to him much. He was… mean, but I think he was just being defensive…'

'So he has the possibility of being nice?' Lavender asked. 'Oooh, this is amazing…'

'Did you see him naked?' asked Parvati. Hermione spluttered.

'Did I _what_?'

'Oh, come on. Living in the same house, it's a perfectly reasonable question.' Lavender asked with a slightly evil smile. 'And you may not be interested in boys, but we are.'

Hermione composed herself. 'No, I did not see him naked.' Parvati's face fell a little.

'Oh well…'

Feeling slightly guilty, Hermione added, 'I did see him topless though. Twice.'

The two girls grinned widely, and began begging for details. By the time Hermione had listed everything she could remember minus the wings – she hadn't really been paying much attention either time – it was time to get on the train.

Ginny turned up from nowhere, chattering about the first years, and Harry and Ron broke off their conversation with Seamus to drag their trunks into the nearest compartment. A hectic five minutes later – people shouting, saying their goodbyes, rushing to get onto the train – they were pulling out of the platform, waving to the parents left behind on the platform until they were out of sight.

As soon as the Platform vanished behind them, Hermione turned round with a satisfied sigh, already looking forward to the new term. 'We'd better go to the Prefects compartment for the meeting.' she said to Ron and Ginny, with a worried glance at Harry, wishing they didn't have to leave him alone. 'Do you mind, Harry…?'

'What?' he asked, glancing around. He was sitting on the seat, staring behind them out of the window, and obviously not paying attention. 'Oh, right. You go ahead, I'll be okay…'

Hermione frowned, noting the strangely distant look in her friend's eyes, but didn't comment. Harry had been getting better, but he kept sliding back, getting lost in memories and thoughts. 

'We won't be too long.' Ron said, pinning his new badge on with a glance at Hermione and his sister, as if to say, 'What can we do?'

They shuffled out of the compartment gloomily, and began to make their way to the end of the train. Ginny, walking in the middle, sighed. 'I wish there were some spell to make him feel better. I hate seeing people depressed.'

'There's Cheering Charms.' Ron pointed out.

'They aren't _permanent_; they only last for an hour or so. I mean something… long term.' She frowned. 'There isn't anything, is there, Hermione?'

Hermione shook her head. 'Muggles have drugs to stop depression, but they have side effects. Besides, they're more for people with chemical imbalances…'

They reached the Prefect's compartment, and entered to find that almost everyone was already there – four prefects each from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, the final Gryffindor prefect, who Ginny greeted cheerfully, and Draco, sitting alone in a corner. Hermione noted that he'd pinned himself in between the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, leaving no seats on either side of him, and the three seats for the remaining Slytherin Prefects were some way away from him. Then again, that made sense, if the Slytherins had abandoned him…

Feeling sorry for Draco, she tried to catch his eye, but he was staring moodily at the tabletop. Sighing, she sat down beside Ginny and looked over to the head of the table, where the Head Girl and Boy were sitting, talking quietly. Hermione knew them both from last year's Prefect meetings. 

The Head Girl was Lynne Attwater, a Hufflepuff with a very round face, mousy-brown hair, and calm light brown eyes. She'd always been the peacemaker, Hermione recalled, very balanced and fair. The kind of person who, in a debate over the murdering of Muggles, would listen to what the Order had to say and then go, 'Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. Now, would you like to give your opinion, Voldemort?' 

The Head Boy seemed to have been chosen for contrast: Edan Rossi, a Ravenclaw with energetic brown eyes and a shock of messy blonde hair. Rather fiery, Hermione recalled, very impulsive and often opinionated – but creative and imaginative to balance it. One of his fellow Ravenclaws had once described him as having 'a mind like a barrel of angry pixies on a sugar high', a rather apt description in Hermione's opinion.

They'd make an interesting pair, Hermione thought as the final three Slytherin Prefects filed in and the meeting began. Quite a contrast, but combined together – if they worked well – they should be a very dynamic pair.

Lynne stood up to address them all. 'Firstly,' she began in her sensible, measured voice, 'I'd like to welcome all the new Prefects, and of course, the old ones.'

A general muted cheer was raised at this from the general direction of the Hufflepuffs; Lynne smiled and carried on. 'As I'm sure you all know, the responsibilities of a Prefect are many and varied. It is our job to help and protect our fellow students of all houses, ages and… backgrounds,' she added carefully, and Hermione looked up sharply. 

So Lynne sensed the growing anti-Muggleborn sentiment too, did she? Hermione glanced around to see if the other Prefects had noticed anything. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs hadn't - neither had Ron - but Ginny caught her eye with a significant look. Draco's eyebrow was raised, and the other Slytherins were exchanging dark glances.

Hermione drew her attention back to Lynne, who was just finishing what she was saying. '… and I sincerely hope you all use your Prefect responsibilities and privileges maturely and wisely. I'm sure you will. Edan, would you like to speak…?'

He shook his head. 'Just get to the administrative parts. Shall I handle them?' he said, and without even waiting for her answer he got to his feet. 'Okay, we need to designate rotas for nighttime patrols. There are eighteen of us, and we need two people on every night, so that means we all have to patrol once every nine nights. Now, last year we set it so that it was always the same two people patrolling, but I think we should change that so you're always patrolling with a different person. What I suggest…'

The meeting went on, with rotas sorted, duties assigned, and all the other administrative things necessary. Finally, the meeting ended, and Hermione hurried to her feet, worrying that Harry had been left alone too long.

As it turned out, he was with Neville, talking about the NEWTs. Hermione joined in with enthusiasm, but Ron and Ginny got bored with discussion of schoolwork and changed the topic to their predictable favourite, Quidditch. Hermione would have changed the topic right back again, but Quidditch seemed to cheer Harry up, so she let it be.

'I'm going to go check everyone's behaving,' she announced, when she couldn't stand the Quidditch talk any longer. 'I won't be long, just a few minutes…'

The boys and Ginny nodded their goodbye, too interested in their discussion to drag themselves away from it. With a small smile, she shook her head and turned to leave. How they could go on about a game so much was beyond her…Well, boys would be boys. Though Ginny had no excuse, unless you counted that the Weasleys were all Quidditch lovers as far as she knew…

She checked all the compartments, looking in to make sure that everyone was okay. In one, she broke up a fight between two third-years and told them off firmly, in another, she found a little first-year who was on the verge of tears because she was away from home for the first time ever and was worried she wouldn't make any friends. Hermione reassured the girl, then took her to one of the other compartments and found some first years for her to meet.

She'd almost finished the entire train when she came across Draco's carriage. She knew it was his, because he was talking to someone and she could hear his voice from outside. She had her hand on the doorknob, automatically going to check that everyone in there was alright, when his tone made her stop.

'I said already, Blaise, I'm not talking about this.'

'Why not?' came Blaise's bitter voice. 'You haven't got anything else to lose. You aren't _one of us_ any more. You turned sides. You've already lost everything you could have lost, _Malfoy_, so why don't you sit down and tell me exactly what moment of… of _insanity_ persuaded you to turn your back on everything you ever were?'

There was silence, and Hermione bit her lip. Should she go in, break this up? No. Draco could take care of himself, and besides, if she stopped this now it would only take place later on, in the Slytherin common room, where Draco wouldn't have a sympathiser with her ear to the door.

Blaise sighed, a delicate, female sigh. 'You had everything, Draco,' she said in a low voice. 'Everything. You had privileges, changes, opportunities many of us would have given anything for, just because of your birth, handed to you on a silver platter! Do you know what I'd have given to be born a Malfoy?'

'A lot.' Draco's voice was blank.

'Any of us would have,' she continued bitterly. 'Power, money, fame… what more could anyone want?'

Draco was silent.

'Why did you throw all that away?' Blaise asked quietly. 'Why? When you had everything, why did you turn your back on it? _Why_?'

There was a long pause. 'I can't tell you,' he said eventually, and Hermione knew why not – because the reason was that, when his human side took over, he couldn't stay with his father any longer, unless he was found out.

Blaise seemed furious. 'Why not?' she demanded. 

'Because I can't.' Draco replied evenly. 'Something happened that meant I couldn't stay with my father, and the Order was the only place I could find sanctuary.'

'Your father would take you back, no matter what, if you still wanted to serve the Dark Lord.' Blaise pointed out, speaking quickly. 'And the Slytherins would forgive you…'

'Not with what's happened to me.' Draco said firmly, calmly. 'He won't take me back now, and I can't undo it.'

Blaise was silent. 'You were the nearest thing I had to a friend, Draco.' She said eventually. 'My closest ally, and then you turned your back on… on everything! You're an outcast now, you know that. I can't be allies with you any more.'

'If you were really a friend, you'd care more about me than about power struggles and outcasts and sides,' Draco said smoothly. There was a short silence, a dark silence, and then came a ringing slap, and Hermione only just had time to move out of the way of the door before Blaise stormed out, eyes blazing.

Tentatively, Hermione peered in. Draco stood facing away from her, but she could see the place where his cheek was turning red from Blaise's slap. Before she could stop herself, she spoke.

'Are… are you okay?'

Draco turned sharply, suddenly furious. 'Were you _spying_ on me?' he demanded.

'I didn't mean…'

 The look on his face cut her off. 'Get out, Granger,' he hissed. When she hesitated, he took a menacing step towards her, and the threat was enough that she closed the door quickly.

Hermione bit her lip as she made her way back to her own compartment. Every time she turned around, it seemed, Draco's problems were increasing. She wished, futilely, that he'd had a better introduction to the world of emotions. People around him who cared about him, for a start.

She wished she could do more to help.

~*~

The Great Hall sparkled with candles as they filed their way in, laughing and shouting, to take their familiar places at the familiar tables. The room smelt clean, and the floors shone, but the atmosphere was still tinged with the memory of a thousand years of school lunches, of feasts, of Halloweens and Christmases. 

'Is that the new Defence professor?' Ron asked, nodding towards the staff table. A young-looking man was engaged in earnest conversation with Professor Sprout, gesturing with his hands as he spoke.

'Must be, we aren't due any new Professors this year except for Defence.' Ginny replied. 'I'd rather have had a woman though, we've only had Umbridge and she was a real bi… er, cow.' She concluded after realising that Ron was there. Thankfully, he appeared not to have noticed.

'I hope this one's decent.' Harry remarked. 'We have an awful history with Defence teachers, the only decent one was Lupin…'

'Moody was okay, apart from the fact that he was a Death Eater in disguise.' Hermione remarked. 'The real Mad Eye would have been great…'

Their conversation was cut off at that moment by Professor McGonagall ushering in the nervous-looking first years, who stared openly at the Great Hall in amazement. 'Look at the ceiling!' one of them whispered, and Hermione remembered another girl, back in first year, saying that as they crossed the Great Hall. _It's enchanted to look like the sky outside, I read about it in 'Hogwarts, A History.'_

The first-years clustered at the front of the hall, gazing up at the Sorting Hat where it sat upon its stool. The Hall fell quiet, in expectation of the song.

The Hat opened the rip at its brim that served it for a mouth and began to sing.

_As the first years stand before me_

_Innocent and wonder-filled,_

_My job is to divide them_

_Thus my purpose is fulfilled._

_I'll settle down upon your head_

_And look into your mind,_

_Your thoughts and wishes, hopes and dreams,_

_And characters to find._

_The Founders taught me, long ago,_

_The methods I should use,_

_To put you in your proper place,_

_To help me pick and choose._

_Good Ravenclaw, she said to me,_

_To pick only the wise,_

_Intelligence was prized the most,_

_In Ravenclaw's eyes._

_Bold Gryffindor then asked for me,_

_To choose the brave of heart,_

_For he believed that courage strong, _

_Must play the greatest part._

_Kind Hufflepuff next asked that I,_

_Give her the firm and true,_

_Those who worked hard to earn their worth,_

_Though anyone would do._

_Sly Slytherin was last to pick,_

_He told me his intent:_

_To have the cunning and the shrewd_

_And ones of pure descent._

_Now Slytherin believed that none_

_Of Muggle birth should be,_

_Taught in the school of Hogwarts,_

_For he thought them unworthy,_

_While now we know that Muggleborns,_

_Are just as good as those,_

_Whose families are magical,_

_As reason plainly shows._

_And yet some of us still believe,_

_As Slytherin once said,_

_That those of Muggle blood are not_

_As good as wizard-bred._

_And these would seek to harm those,_

_Sat among us, in our midst,_

_Who are born of Muggle parents_

_And their hate we must resist._

_Oh, never hate and never harm,_

_The Muggleborns you know,_

_For we must stand united,_

_Against our common foe._

_And now my song is at an end,_

_The Sorting shall commence,_

_Remember what I've said to you,_

_In all the seasons hence._

Whispers broke out around the Hall as the song came to an end, and Hermione and her friends shared significant looks. It seemed the Sorting Hat, too, was picking up on the media's prejudice. At least the warning would get people thinking, though it probably wouldn't be enough, not on its own…

Professor McGonagall cut off any further speculation by standing up and beginning to read out the names. 'Amin, Khadijah!'

After a few seconds, the hat shouted, 'Hufflepuff!' and the girl scampered off to her table. 'Baker, Hannah!' became the first Ravenclaw, and after that Hermione's interests began to wander, only directed back to the Sorting when 'Khanijau, Simrun!' and 'Lane, Louise!' became Gryffindors.

'Meyer, Ellen!' was called next, and Hermione tried to drag her attention back to the proceedings. A dishwater-blonde girl approached the hat, and sat down with the Hat upon her head. There was a very long pause, at least half a minute.

'SLYTHERIN!' shouted the hat, and instantly there was mutterings at the Slytherin table, followed by outright shouts, only silenced by the glare of the teachers. Ellen joined the table, but the few who did break into applause, as was customary for new first-years, fell quickly into silence under the disapproving looks of their peers.

Hermione leant over to whisper to Ron. 'What's up with her? The Slytherins are acting like they want to leap on her and hex her to death.'

'I think I know why.' Ginny cut in quietly, looking slightly pale. 'Meyers isn't a Pureblood surname, and I don't recall anyone with that surname in the wizarding world… I think she's a Muggleborn.'

'You mean the Slytherins are being so mean to her just because she's …?' Hermione asked incredulously. 'But not all of them are prejudiced, why aren't some of them accepting her?'

'The powerful ones probably won't let them. Some of them clapped, remember, but the others stopped them… Oh, that poor girl,' Ginny whispered as 'Pearce, Lucy!' became a Hufflepuff. 'They'll murder her in there, she won't have a chance…'

'The Hat must have done it to try and get the Slytherins less prejudiced,' Ron joined in. 'Oh, the bloody idiot!'

Hermione glanced over at the Slytherin table, where, 'Pilkington, Joshua!' had just taken a seat some way away from Ellen. The girl was sitting alone, frowning, and seemed to be watching the others thoughtfully. She didn't seem afraid, though she must know she wasn't accepted…

Her attention was drawn back to the proceedings as 'Slater, Sophie!' joined the Gryffindor table, and she tried to focus on the Sorting, but her attention kept wandering back to the poor Ellen. It was only recaptured again when Dumbledore stood up and began his speech.

'It is a delight and a pleasure,' he said, 'to welcome you all back to Hogwarts, and to welcome the first-years.' Hermione could have sworn he glanced towards the Slytherin table. 'It is also a delight to welcome our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Delaney.'

The man they'd seen earlier grinned at them all, and was greeted by general applause.

Dumbledore carried on with all the usual warnings against using magic in the corridors, staying away form the Forbidden Forest and not angering Filch, then bid them all a good year, and let them eat.

Hermione's eyes kept wandering over to the Slytherin table. There were two isolated patches amid the sea of people, one occupied by Draco, the other by Ellen. She frowned. There were altogether too many people to worry about.

~*~

**A/N:** Did you like it, my preciouses? Review! There's lots of interesting bits coming up soon, obviously, with lots of developments being made and suchlike. I can promise there will be more of poor Ellen (you don't know it yet, but she prefers Ella) and Professor Erebus Delaney (Erebus being his first name). Also more Harry. I spend a long time picking names for my original characters, they all have hints and occasionally red herrings in their meanings, for anyone with the time to go find them.

You may not have the time to mess about with name sites, but you DO have the time for a review! Think of how long I've spent writing this, and then think of how long it takes to write a review. A tiny amount of time in comparison. Show the writer some love, people!


	15. Sixth Time Lucky

**Chapter 14: Sixth Time Lucky**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. As if this wasn't enough cause for woe, I only own ONE Easter egg. Pity me, ye lovers of chocolate!

**Thanks for 394 reviews goes to: **awkward, jules37, draconas, Chiinoyami-chan, Alessandra-Elisabeth, Ar-Zimraphel, Plaidly Lush, Go10, kessi1011, Mizu Ki, heavengurl899 (x3), SycoCallie, Storm079, Bella, Orchid6297, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole, Simpson-Girl, Stephow, JoeBob1379, btvsgoddess, Sam8, Simrun, anni0379, mesmer, Arafel2, Haystack8190, KrystyWroth, Flexi Lexi, Kiyoko, nady, Scaz85, likingit, Hatusu, Bella, Celestial Eclipse, PhAnToM-ChiK, thekidwonder*ladymistress, taragoddess, poetrychik, JenCarpeDiem, SolaStar

**A/N:** Some American/English things to address: A jumper, as someone asked, is what I think is called a pullover in America. Also, someone said Defence should be spelt with an s… I checked in the books and it is with a c. Don't know if that's an American/English difference, but Ill put it here anyway.

I'd also like to draw your attention to the first original story I've written in quite some time, which you can find under this account name over at fictionpress. If you're too lazy to do that, I've linked to it in my profile (temporarily under homepage, to be moved into the actual profile when I get it sorted out). And anyone who's receiving my update emails will have had a link with theirs. Its called **The End Of Eden**, and I'll say no more here – go read it!

The holiday season is upon us, so a very happy Passover/Easter/chocolate-getting-time to all of you!

Anyway, here is the latest chapter. Enjoy!

~*~

_A good teacher is like a candle - it consumes itself to light the way for others. _

**_Author Unknown_**

~*~

There was a definite first-day-of-lessons feeling in the air as the Great Hall slowly filled with sleepy students, wondering if they really had forgotten everything they'd ever learnt or if it just felt that way. 

'Why do we have to do NEWTs?' Ron moaned as he slumped into a seat. 'I mean, we've already done OWLs, isn't that enough?'

'You know NEWTs are important,' Hermione chided Ron. 'They're one of the first things a potential employer will look at, you know…'

'Well what was the bloody point of OWLs then?'

Hermione sighed, helping herself to some toast. 'OWLs demonstrate your ability to do well in a diverse range of…'

'Hermione,' Ron cut in, 'I know you mean well, but the last thing I want at this time in the morning is a lecture on the importance of exams.' He started to heap a pile of food onto his plate.

'Well next time you ask a rhetorical question, Ron Weasley, I suggest you make it clearer.' Hermione told him, biting into her toast with a slightly put off expression, but she brightened up almost immediately as the caught sight of the two fifth year prefects making their way around the tables. 'Oooh, timetables!'

'Oh no,' Ron moaned from beside her, '_timetables_…'

Harry spluttered into laughter at this, almost choking on a mouthful of bacon. Hermione frowned. 'Are you alright?'

Harry gave a final cough. 'I'm fine,' he grinned. 'I'll just have to remember not to eat when there's a possibility of you two making me laugh.'

'You'll end up starving to death then,' cut in Ginny, coming up behind them with a grin. 'They'll always make you laugh.'

'True,' Harry said, nodding. 'I'll just have to risk choking to death.'

'Oh, hush, you two,' said Hermione, shaking her head. 'Ginny, can we have our timetables?'

'Sure,' Ginny replied, shuffling through the parchments she was carrying. 'Granger, H, Potter, H and Weasley, R. Here you go.'

She handed them each a piece of parchment, gave them a cheerful grin, and headed off towards a group of third years, leaving her friends to pour over their timetables.

'Brilliant,' Ron grinned, 'we get free lessons this year, I can get loads of Quidditch practice in…'

'No,' Hermione contradicted him, 'you can get loads of _homework_ in. We get a lot more this year than last year, you know.'

Ron shrugged this off.  'I'll still have plenty of time to practice flying,' he assured her. 'And I need some practice guarding the hoops… hey, Harry, want to have a practice later? We're both free at the same times, look…'

Hermione glanced at her friends' timetables and was very glad to see that she had the same lessons free as they did. She let their conversation turn to Quidditch, as she knew it would the moment the word was mentioned, and began reading over her timetable, noting what free lessons she had and when, how she could schedule her homework to her advantage, when all her lessons were, and other such details.

Their first lesson, it seemed, would be Defence Against the Dark Arts, which they all had in common. Breaking up the Quidditch conversation, she pointed this out to her friends. 'Guess we'll be the first ones to see what Delaney's like… I hope he's a good teacher.'

Harry nodded. 'Well, he can't be any worse than Umbridge, that's for sure.'

'Wonder if he'll manage to stay more than a year this time?' Ron asked. 'I mean, no one has so far…'

They all looked up to the staff table, where Professor Delaney was sipping a glass of orange juice and talking politely to Professor Snape.

'Well, he doesn't look like a minion of Voldemort,' Ron remarked.

'Neither did Quirrel. Or the false Moody,' Hermione pointed out. 'We don't seem to have much luck with Defence teachers, do we? Apart from Lupin.'

Harry sighed. 'Lets hope we're sixth time lucky, then.'

~*~ 

They went to their lesson early – it was the first day back, after all, and they were curious to see what the new professor was like. It seemed that everyone else had had the same idea, however – the classroom was already half full with chattering students when they got there. The three of them grabbed some seats around the middle of the room, pulled out books and parchment and quills, and wondered how long it would be before the new teacher arrived.

Hermione looked around the room. 'It looks like quite a large class this year,' she remarked. 'Well, it would be, with Voldemort back and everything. People will want to know how to defend themselves…'

Ron seemed to remember something. 'Oh yeah,' he said, 'are we going to carry on the – you know – the DA this year? People still need to learn to defend themselves…'

'I'd taken it for granted that we were,' Hermione said. 'I mean, Umbridge isn't here, so we don't have to keep it secret any more. It could even be an official club!'

Harry, however, seemed uncertain. 'I don't know… If this professor is rubbish, I guess we'll have to… We'll talk about it later,' he finished, as Professor Delaney swung the door open, and all eyes swivelled towards him with interest.

He grinned brightly at them all as he reached the front desk. 'Good morning, everyone,' he greeted them brightly. 'As Dumbledore told you all last night, I'm Professor Delaney. That's D, E, L, A, N, E, Y, and the first person I catch making a pun on that gets detention with Filch.' He raised an eyebrow teasingly, suggesting that he wasn't altogether serious, and managed to elicit a good few wicked grins as half the students instantly vowed to make puns if it was the last thing they did.

'Right, down to business,' he said, grabbing a few sheets of parchment off the front desk. 'Seems your Defence teaching's been rather patchy, hasn't it? You got a good start in first year, it seems… goodness, second year was dreadful… third year, you concentrated on Dark creatures, fourth year, curses… and as for last year, well, there's not much I can say that doesn't involve the words 'bloody awful'.'

Most of the class laughed at this, and the trio shared a glance and a grin. Delaney seemed to be one of those teachers who could hold a class' attention without trying. Even the ones who sat at the back of the room and chattered the lessons away were looking towards him with interest.

'You've done most of the Dark creatures I'd have expected you to do already, which is good news,' Professor Delaney went on. 'We might do a few weeks on some of the more exotic ones at the end of this term, depending how we're doing. But for the most part, we'll be building on your fourth year work. Defensive spells, a few of the more useful offensive ones, and some strategy, of course.'

A buzzing whisper of excitement streaked through the class as they heard this news, especially from those who'd been members of the DA, which made up just over half of the class. Delaney raised his hand for silence.

'Okay, I want you all to split up into pairs,' he said over the growing enthusiastic chatter. 'Today, I just want to see where everyone is with their curses, so find a partner and try some practice duels.'

He gave them a minute or two to sort out their partnerships – Hermione and Ron decided to work together, as they were only together in two lessons, and Harry ended up with Susan Bones. Professor Delaney swept the tables to one side of the room with a flick of his wand, and they spent the rest of the lesson duelling merrily.

~*~

As first days back go, the rest of the day was rather a good one for Harry. In the Charms lesson immediately after Defence Against the Dark Arts, they'd managed to get Professor Flitwick rambling on about the next two years' work with various amusing Charms-related anecdotes mixed in, which meant they didn't get much work done. 

Their first ever free lesson had been directly after lunch, and Ron and Harry had gone off to practice Quidditch while Hermione got to work on their Defence homework (research any spell you think would give you an advantage in a duel: write a short essay about why you chose it, and be prepared to use it next lesson).  The final lesson of the day, Transfiguration, had been filled as usual with hard work as they attempted to turn a burning candle into an apple.

The Gryffindor common room was packed with nervous first-years still learning the ropes, worn-out students and a lot of moaning over the first homework of the year. Ron was particularly miserable; he'd managed to make his candle spontaneously combust, splattering himself with hot wax. Madam Pomfrey had, of course, been able to provide him with a potion, but he kept complaining that his hands still hurt.

'You should be thankful none of it got in your eyes,' said Hermione, as Ron moaned about it for the hundredth time. She scribbled down a line of her Herbology essay. 'And besides, it was your own fault the thing exploded.'

'It didn't explode,' Ron pointed out sulkily, 'it kind of… melted and then splattered everywhere.'

She sighed, putting the finishing sentence on her homework, and looked up. 'Well it looked like an explosion to me...  Harry? Are you done with that work?'

Harry, who was staring blankly into space, started at this. 'Oh, er… what?'

'Are you done?' she repeated with a frown. 'You were daydreaming…'

Harry looked down at his essay: he'd stopped writing in the middle of a word, about halfway through his essay. He sighed. 'I think I should take a break,' he said, finishing off the word and rolling his parchment up, then sinking back into the soft cushions.

He'd been thinking about Sirius. Again. Oh, he hadn't meant to, it was just that something he'd been writing had reminded him of something Sirius used to say, and then he'd got caught up remembering, and then he would have got started thinking about… the veil, if Hermione hadn't broken into his thoughts. Harry did try not to remember it, but it seemed that everything reminded him, somehow.

And he missed Sirius. He missed just knowing that there was someone there, someone grown-up who could help him if he needed it. He had Ron and Hermione, and they would help him, but they were the same age as he was and sometimes he needed advice from an adult. There was Dumbledore, but Dumbledore wasn't like Sirius had been. Dumbledore was very old and very wise, like some ancient wizard in a Muggle storybook, while Sirius was more like… an older brother, or a playful uncle. He didn't have anyone like that left now. And – no matter what Lupin had said – it had been his fault that Sirius died.

'Harry?'

It was Ginny's voice, which startled him: he hadn't even noticed her come over. She was frowning at him, and Harry realised he'd not been paying attention again. 'Sorry,' he apologised, cursing himself, 'what were you saying?'

'We were discussing the DA,' Hermione explained with a frown. 'Are you sure you're okay? Do you want to… you know, talk or anything?'

Harry shook his head. 'I'm fine,' he said firmly. 'Lets talk about the DA. I assume we aren't carrying on? I mean, Delaney's a really great teacher…' he said hopefully.

Truthfully, he didn't want to carry on the DA. It had been a matter of luck that only one person was killed at the Department of Mysteries: he still had nightmares where Hermione died too, or Ron, or Ginny, or anyone that had been there that day. And it had been members of the DA who followed him to the fight. If they hadn't been DA members, they would never have come, never have risked their lives… and he didn't want to be responsible for yet another death.

'Well, we thought that too,' Hermione was saying, 'but there's lots of people that aren't doing Defence, and they need to learn to defend themselves.'

'Plus, he isn't teaching defence spells and duelling to all the years, he's doing creatures with us,' Ginny chipped in. 'My year needs it, and I think there's some other years that he's not doing spells with…'

Ginny raised an eyebrow, and then gave him the same pleading look he'd seen her use when she wanted to borrow Ron's broomstick, or wanted Charlie to help her with her Care of Magical Creatures homework.

He wasn't convinced. 'Yeah, but… will people still want to do it?'

Ron gave him a bemused look. 'Will they want to do it? Of course they'll want to do it! They wanted to do it last year, when that bloody Umbridge woman banned us from doing it, they'll want to do it this year.'

Hermione nodded. 'We could make it official this year,' she pointed out. 'And since people know Voldemort's back, they'll be scared, they'll want to learn to defend themselves. We need to carry on with it. And to do that, we need you.'

Harry realised he had no good arguments against it, except for his fear he'd get more people killed. And Hermione and Ron would just say it wasn't his fault the DA was in danger.

'Okay,' he sighed reluctantly, 'we'll start it up again.'

The others grinned. 'Okay, if we're going to do this officially, we don't need to maintain secrecy any more,' Hermione said.' Which means we can advertise it openly, and hopefully reach a lot more of the students.'

Ginny cut in. 'Shall we still use the Room of Requirement as a meeting place?'

'Yes,' replied Hermione, 'it's more convenient. It has everything we need, and we know that however many people we turn up, there'll be enough room. Harry, do you agree?'

'What?'

Hermione managed to look both worried and annoyed at once. 'Do you agree we should use the Room of Requirement as our meeting place?'

Harry nodded, and tried to pay attention. If he was going to be forced to do this, he may as well do it properly.

'Are you sure you're okay, mate?' Ron asked him with a frown.

'Yes, yes, I'm fine,' Harry assured him. 'Carry on, Hermione.'

She nodded. 'Well, I was thinking. If Hogwarts were to be attacked, then the older years and the DA could all fight fine, but what about the lower years? The first and second years, maybe the third…'

'The teachers would get them out of the fighting,' Ron pointed out.

'Yes, but I don't think the Death Eaters are going to just sit back and let them huddle in safety,' Hermione said darkly. 'I mean, if you were a Death Eater, would you fight the older students who have a good idea what you're doing, or the little children who can't do much beyond Transfiguring matchsticks into needles?'

Silence greeted this remark. Ron broke it. 'So we need to teach the younger years some things too.'

Ginny nodded. 'Definitely. What do you think we should teach them, Harry?'

He was slightly put off by the sudden question. 'Well… we shouldn't teach them anything too difficult, like Patronuses. But…' He tried to think of something as safe as possible. 'Defence spells, and things like escaping from them. They aren't going to be fighting the Death Eaters…'

The others nodded. 'So, would we have two DAs, then?' Ginny asked.

'Yes,' replied Hermione, 'I think so. One for the first - three years, do you think? – and one for fourth year through seventh year. Of course, we need to clear all this with Dumbledore first…'

'Dumbledore will let us,' Ginny said with certainty. 'We need to plan things first, then get his approval. Like how we're going to advertise it, what we're going to do, how we're going to arrange the sessions…'

'It'll be difficult, if we're running two DAs.' Hermione remarked. 'But I'm sure we'll think of something… It'll all be around Quidditch team schedules again, won't it? And other clubs…'

They carried on, discussing various aspects of what they were going to do, as Harry became more and more worried. The DA was a good idea, but he knew it'd end up with people getting in danger again, fighting against Death Eaters and getting hurt and it would all be his fault _again_…

Finally, their impromptu meeting ended, and Harry quickly took the chance to leave, making some excuse about having to fetch a book. He didn't quite know why, but he wanted to be alone for a while.

~*~

Back in the common room, Ron frowned at Harry's retreating back. 'What's up now?' he asked. 'I mean, the DA's not depressing at all…'

Hermione sighed. 'I think I know,' she said. 'It was all DA members who went to the Ministry with him at the end of last year…'

'He's worried something similar will happen again, and people will get hurt because of him,' Ginny concluded grimly.

'But that's ridiculous!' Ron said incredulously. 'I mean, if he hadn't taught the DA all that stuff in the first place, they'd all have come off a lot worse…'

'I know,' Ginny sighed. 'Do you think one of us should talk to him?'

'I don't know…' Hermione frowned, 'I mean, if he wanted to talk, he'd have asked one of us already…'

'Harry's very… independent. He might refuse to ask anyone, even if he wants to,' Ginny pointed out. 'I think one of us should say something to him, at least about the DA thing… if we talk to him about one thing, he might talk to us about others.'

Hermione and Ron nodded. 'Which one of us should go, do you think?' asked Hermione.

'Not me,' said Ron, 'I'm no good at talking about stuff like this…'

'Oh, Ron, that's nonsense, you're perfectly wonderful at it.' Ginny said, before leaning over and messing up his hair.

'Oy, that's my hair!'

Ginny laughed and sat back down. 'Alright, not you then. Hermione?'

Hermione looked thoughtful. 'I don't know,' she said slowly. 'He knows me better… would he listen to someone he knew well or someone he didn't?'

'I reckon Ginny should go,' Ron offered. 'I mean, Hermione and I tried to talk to him about it in the holidays… plus, if he gets mad, you're good at calming people down, Ginny.'

'You don't think he'll get mad, do you?' Ginny frowned, getting to her feet. 'I mean, I'm only going to try and persuade him that the DA isn't going to end up with droves of children dying…'

'These days, I haven't a clue what'll get him angry.' Hermione sighed. 'Good luck, Ginny.'

~*~

He was in the boy's dormitory, which meant that Ginny had to peer round very cautiously before entering. She wasn't strictly supposed to be in here – it wasn't actually forbidden, just something that wasn't done. But there didn't appear to be any half-naked boys, to her relief (and, perhaps, her disappointment). Harry was sitting on the windowsill, staring broodingly out onto the grounds, a slight frown on his face.

Hoping this went alright, Ginny approached him. 'Harry?' she asked tentatively.

She must have startled him; his head snapped round so fast he almost fell off the windowsill. 'Ginny?' he asked, then frowned. 'What are you doing here?'

'I was wondering,' she began, 'you didn't sound very happy about carrying on with the DA…?'

His face went blank, hard. 'I think it's a great idea,' he said stiffly, 'you must have been… imagining it, or something.'

She could either leave it there, or tell him that she knew why he didn't want it back. She chose the latter. 'You're scared that if the DA starts, it'll end up with people dying, because everyone who went to the Department of Mysteries with you was from the DA.'

He was taken aback for a moment. 'How did you…?'

She grinned. 'Women's intuition. Hermione figured it out too.'

There was a moment of silence, long enough for Ginny's grin to fade, and Harry to return to staring uncomfortably out the window. Ginny fidgeted for a moment, then spoke up.

'It won't, you know.'

'What won't what?'

'End up with people getting killed,' Ginny clarified. 'Harry, the only reason no one from the DA got killed last time was your teaching. If it hadn't been for that…'

'If it hadn't been for the DA, they'd never have come,' Harry said darkly.

'Ron and Hermione would have come,' she pointed out, then placed her hand on the wall, near where he was resting – the closest she dared get to this strange, troubled Harry. '_I_ would have come.'

He glanced at her then, and his expression softened. 'Maybe,' he sighed. 'But the only reason they followed be was that they were used to having me as a leader…'

'And they all survived,' Ginny said firmly. 'What does that tell you?'

He sighed. 'That the DA was a good idea.'

'Yes,' she said. 'Look, if Voldemort attacked Hogwarts right now, what do you think would happen?'

'Lots of people would die,' he said grimly. 'And we should have the DA, because it would stop people dying and give them the skills to defend themselves. I get it.'

'Do you really get it, or are you just trying to get me to shut up and leave you alone?'

'I really get it,' he assured her. 'I know that before, it's just… You can't promise that there won't be another incident like the one at the Department of Mysteries, and next time people might get killed…'

'I can't promise you that,' she agreed, 'but I can promise you that I'll tell every single person in this school that, should you get it into your head to go off on a rescue mission, they're to Stun you and tie you to a chair.'

He laughed at that, and the smile stayed on his face. 'Okay,' he said at last, 'I guess we're doing the DA again then. Come on, lets go back downstairs.'

She grinned, and gave him a helping hand down from the windowsill.

~*~

**A/N:** I'm very much looking forward to the next chapter. This one was all about DADA, the DA and our favourite Gryffindors; in the next one, I can promise some more on the intriguing Ella, Draco flying AND Draco naked, though not both at the same time, and the return of someone you all know and love. In the meantime, every reviewer gets a virtual Easter egg – in the shape of Draco. The only question is, will you eat it or drool at the sexiness? The only way to find out is to review!


	16. Fallen’s Flight

**Chapter 15: Fallen's Flight**

**Disclaimer:**  Sadly, I have not turned into JK Rowling in the course of a week, and still don't own Harry Potter. Then again, I wouldn't want to turn into JK Rowling. I like me. And she's probably forgotten all the science and stuff she learned in school so she'd fail all my exams. Difficult decision, really…

**Thanks for 438 reviews goes to: **Ar-Zimraphel, jules37, Go10, sakura ^.^ syaoran2, Simpson-Girl, Kippen, Orchid6297, SycoCallie, awkward,  KrystyWroth,  innocentrose, storm079, btvsgoddess, regina-terrae, kessi1011, alka, Random*Oddity, RedWitch1, OBXglider, Bronwyn Blythe, mesmer, draconas, shadow slytherin, JoeBob1379, Kiyoko, relena333, Anime Goddess15, Paganicewand, Plaidly Lush, samhaincat, Sam8, Laterose, heavengurl899 (no more sugar for you!) PinkTribeChick, SkitteringHotMagenta, MsLessa, Stoned Snail, Flexi Lexi, Infinite13, ToOtHpIcK(x4), willowfairy!

**A/N:** Apologies to all the guys for the last A/N… don't worry, I promise this chapter's ok for males to read, its all implicit. Forgive me? I'll remember that for next time, and you have full licence to yell at me if I slip up again. Though you should be thankful this isn't being written by some of my betas, who would very quickly have to rate this NC-17 for the A/Ns alone (*cough*LOU*cough*). 

As for Delaney: a couple of my friends persist in calling him De-lame-y. There's a few other possibilities too… and you KNOW what students are like with teacher's names. Mrs Mashed-Potato, Mrs Kill-more, Mrs Ostrich-cello… only a few of the ones I've had.

NEWTs are in the last year, but it's a two-year course. You make your choices just before your OWLs, then in sixth and seventh years you study for NEWTs. (JK based the exams on the Muggle examination system, which I'm very familiar with as I'm undertaking my OWLS in May!)

Well, I hope everyone had a happy Easter, and celebrated Passover, the Resurrection, or the Resurrection of the Cadbury's Crème Egg with great joy. (I know which one I celebrated… chocolate, yum!) I've not had too bad a week, except for Easter Sunday, when we went to do archery at my local club with some friends. I had a good time, plus there was a rather cute guy there, with whom I chatted about painting targets on the cats and using them for shooting practice. 

The big downside came when we were taking the bows apart, when I managed to tear/sprain a muscle in my back… lets say it was good research for the Cruciatius, shall we? It was quite scary at one part, I actually fainted for a second, and my hearing/vision went completely weird… Hurt like hell. But I healed remarkably quickly, which was good, so I was back to writing quite soon.

Anyway, onto the chapter. Enjoy!  

~*~

_Beware of sentimental alliances where the consciousness of good deeds is the only compensation for noble sacrifices. _

**_Otto von Bismarck (1815 - 1898), Bismarck and the German Empire by Erich Eyck_**

~*~

He had never realised it before, but flying was _fun_.

Or, at least, he assumed it was fun. He wasn't really sure, yet, but it felt like fun ought to feel. Which was stupid, really. Flying was just what you did at night, to exercise your wings and make sure the muscles stayed strong so when you needed to fly, you could.

And now Draco hovered above the school and realised that he was actually having _fun_.

He hadn't been able to fly at the Order – obviously, he'd been in the middle of Muggle-inhabited London – but there were no Muggles around Hogwarts, and under cover of darkness anyone who caught sight of him from the dim windows could easily explain him away as an overlarge owl, or a trick of the light. He was free to fly as much as he wished.

And his wings were aching for some exercise. And the night air was beautifully cool against his skin, and the moon was bright, and the air was silent but for the rush of air in his ears as he threw himself into a swoop, a winged Wronski Feint with no opposing Seeker to trick, no Snitch to capture, just the strange, fierce feeling of speeding downwards, nothing but wings and feathers keeping him from falling, and going so low the grass almost grazed his nose before pulling out of the dive, rushing upwards towards the stars under the momentum of the fall, until his speed ran out and he was forced to beat his wings and hover.

Flushed, he brushed a messy strand of hair from his eyes and tried to get his breath back, wondering when the blood had started pulsing so hard in his veins, or where the heady surge of feelings had come from as he'd dived to meet the earth. Emotion was still strange, still something he didn't understand and didn't want any part of. 

That was why it had been so hard to read Hermione's books – when he read them, he felt the same way as the characters, and that was frightening. Fear was one he'd come to recognise. Fear of emotions, fear of being human, fear of going to Dumbledore, fear of his father's reaction, fear of the Slytherins throwing him out. Emotions were difficult, and confusing, and he'd far rather do without them.

But this dizzy feeling was different, addictive and powerful, making him want more. And why, he asked himself, shouldn't he have more? There was nothing stopping him, after all, no rule against it.

He felt his lips trying to move of their own accord, and rather alarmed, allowed them to. It took a few moments to figure out that this was a smile. A smile? Why?

Because he was going to do it again.

The smile, alarmingly, turned into a full grin as he beat his wings harder, flying upwards to hang over the grassy lawn. He fought it down, wondering why he'd want to grin, but eventually realised that he couldn't. He left it there, his lips oddly shaped as he prepared to swoop downwards…

Three swoops later, he was flushed with exhilaration, his normally immaculate hair blown to tatters by the wind. Tired and breathless from the high-speed rushes, he leisurely flew up to the top of the Astronomy tower, perching lightly on the roof, looking out over the silver-painted grounds of Hogwarts and letting himself get his breath back while he thought.

He'd liked the feeling he'd got as he swept through the air. Actually _liked_ it. Which was odd; most of the other feelings he'd felt so far had been negative, while this was so… He searched for words he didn't know the meanings of. Exciting? Exhilarating? Invigorating? Were any of those the right word, or was he getting it completely wrong?

The books had helped with some emotions, but others were proving difficult. It hadn't taken him long after the first few books to feel confident in his definition of anger, for example. Fear, too, seemed pretty simple. But there were others he simply didn't understand yet, and doubted he ever would. Compassion, for example, was nonsensical – he could vaguely grasp the idea of someone caring for someone else when it brought them no benefit; after all, human emotions were completely illogical. But compassion to the point where you'd sacrifice something to benefit another person, without expectation of repayment? That was too illogical for him to accept. He had lived his life by logic, after all.

Another thing he couldn't define yet was love. Which was odd, since by all accounts in the books it was to be found everywhere – friendships, lovers, parents and children – but the books couldn't agree on a description. Even in the course of one book, the description would alter and twist until he couldn't be sure. Draco had managed to figure out that there were different kinds of love between different people, and the rest remained a hopeless, contradictory tangle.

His thoughts were quite rudely interrupted by a loud hoot near his ear, making him jump so much that he almost slid down the icy, steep tiles. A plain brown owl – one of the school ones – was sitting beside him impatiently, a scroll of parchment tied to its leg.

Draco untied the parchment with stiff fingers – it was growing cold - and dismissed the owl, which flew off haughtily in the direction of the school owlery. Wrapping his feathery wings round himself to stay warm, he unrolled the parchment and read it swiftly.

_Are the books helpful? I've been re-reading some of them and I'm not entirely sure how much information someone with your problem could get from them. If you'd like, we could meet sometime this week and see if there's anything I could clarify? Owl me back – I should have time any night except Thursday._

_-H_

Draco noted with interest that she hadn't put either her own name or his on the letter. She was obviously sensible enough to realise that it would drag his name down even further were it to be discovered that a Muggleborn were writing to him. And – Draco scanned the text once again – she'd made only implicit references to his problem with emotions. The way she'd described it, she could easily have been talking about something else – offering help with schoolwork, for example.

Making a mental note to remember that about her – she was intelligent enough to be secretive when need be – he considered her offer. Normally, he'd have turned it down. He shouldn't be seen meeting with a Muggleborn at the best of times, and especially not when his reputation amongst the Slytherins had just taken such a blow. 

But – and it hurt him strangely to admit it, even though it was truth – Rita had been right. He couldn't figure all this out on his own, it was too much at once, too complicated. He did need help with it. And Hermione was the only person offering help.

Frowning, Draco folded the smooth parchment in half, then into quarters, and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. Such strange clothing – _Muggle_ clothing – but he couldn't wear robes for flying, and the denim was tough enough to stand up to the wear and tear, unlike most of the rest of his wardrobe. He brushed some dirt off the pale fabric, then unfurled his wings again with a gentle brush of feather on feather, took off from the harsh rooftop, and made for the way back inside. He needed to send a reply to Hermione.

~*~

Fifteen minutes later, he was making his way back to the Slytherin dungeons from the owlery. He'd decided to use one of the school owls, knowing that his own would be recognised, and the Slytherins would hate him even more for that. Writing to a Mudblood…

'_Praeiudica_', he muttered as he arrived at the entrance to the common room, stepping inside as the concealed door slid obligingly open. The room was just a little on the cold side – in winter, it would be freezing – in spite of the fire that burnt beneath the elaborate mantelpiece. The lamps, chained to the ceiling above, cast an odd light over the room, tingeing everything faintly green.

Last year, he would have been acknowledged as he walked into the room, and swaggered to a seat near the fire to sit with all the rest of the politically powerful Purebloods. Nowhere was the division into social classes more defined than in Slytherin house; nowhere was there so rigid an order. 

The highest group was the children of old Pureblood families whose parents followed Voldemort: future Death Eaters, most of them, and strictly opposed to Muggleborns. Then the cluster of Slytherins who hung around the edge of that group, ones without quite so much influence or power, trying to get into the top set. Then a few further subgroups, with differing amounts of respect depending on their families' social standing, purity, money, opinions on Muggleborns, and half a dozen other factors. At the very bottom came the neutrals, those who didn't openly show loyalty to either Voldemort or Dumbledore, who maintained friendships inside the house and out and didn't care much for blood. 

Was he one of them now, this neutral group who clung to the edges of the Slytherin society? He didn't know what he was. He knew what he had been, as a Fallen, but all that had changed as emotion began to make him think differently. What was he now…?

He took a seat near the neutral group, watching them surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, pretending to examine the carving of a snake on the armrest of his chair. They were an odd band of misfits, pushed together solely because no one else would accept them but each other. Yet most of them could have been higher in the Slytherin hierarchy, if they'd made a bit of effort – associated with the right people, offered the correct opinions, made it beneficial to the others to know them – that kind of thing. So why did they stay here, at the very bottom of the pile?

Draco could only see one or two that couldn't have fought their way up the ranks. A fifth-year who had openly proclaimed himself anti-Voldemort, a rather outspoken third-year who'd persistently insulted half the Slytherin elite… and the new girl. The Muggleborn. What was her name again? He'd heard it only briefly at the Sorting; the rest of his house, spitting their disgust, called her only 'that Mudblood', or 'that disgrace to the name of Slytherin', or even worse things.

She didn't look like a disgrace. She was obviously intelligent enough to go straight for the one group where she might find sympathy, find some allies in her house so she had someone to protect her from any harm the pureblood fanatics tried to cause her. It took many first years some time to settle in, find their rightful place in the hierarchy. She seemed like she'd been here forever, smiling and chatting easily to the other neutrals.

He hadn't been paying attention to the small group in the corner for a minute or two, so it came as a surprise when a voice from in front of him asked, 'You're Draco Malfoy, aren't you?'

It was more of a statement than a question, Draco reflected as he glanced up from the arm of the chair to see the Muggleborn girl leaning against the back of the chair a short way away, watching him through very pale blue eyes, a look of consideration on her face as though she were at Madame Malkins, examining dress robes. Draco found that he didn't like that look.

He inclined his head, a sharp nod, and bluntly asked, 'And who are you?'

'Ellen. Ellen Meyer,' she replied, sliding into a seat. Her voice was too confident for her position. She was a first year, and a Muggleborn at that, speaking to a sixth-year – an outcast sixth-year, but still higher in the Slytherin hierarchy than she. Was she arrogant, then, or merely acting, trying to give a show of confidence? The latter, he decided as he noticed the distant hint of fear or desperation in her eyes.

'Welcome to Slytherin house, Ellen _Meyer_,' he replied with a slow smile, the emphasis on her surname an unspoken reminder of her parentage and her place. She didn't bat an eyelid. He felt himself slipping back into the familiar patterns of Slytherin – filled with double meanings and unspoken truths. 'And how are you finding it here?'

'Challenging,' she replied simply. 'But then, I enjoy a challenge.'

Which, when he read between the lines, meant that it was nearly impossible being a Muggleborn in a house obsessed with blood purity. Her statement that she enjoyed it was nothing but bluster, trying to cover up weakness: not even a Weasley could have missed the fact that, far from being a mere challenge, Ellen's situation was dangerous at best. Quite ironically, she seemed to fit as a Slytherin. She could probably have made it quite high up the rankings had she been born pureblood, or even half-blood.

He became aware of other Slytherins watching them – of course, the outcast and the Mudblood talking would create some interest – and grew annoyed. He had already fallen far enough, after all… 'What do you want?' he asked, quite sharply.

She appeared surprised – Slytherins were not usually so blunt. 'Excuse me?'

'You wouldn't have come over here without a purpose,' he said simply, by way of explanation.

She frowned a little, swiftly knocking a wayward strand of dishwater-blonde hair out of her face, before pausing a moment with the air of a chess player choosing their next move. It was chess, but with words and subtexts in place of pawns and knights, and a greater meaning than checkmate at the end of it.

'I was simply… curious,' she replied. 'After all, we're both…'

'Outcasts?' he cut in, a surprising amount of bitterness in his voice. He hadn't recognised it until he'd heard it, but it was there.

She nodded, her mouth quirking at one corner. 'I wouldn't have put it exactly like that, but yes…'

'And you came to speak to me because you wanted another ally, correct?'

There wasn't any point in denying it, though Ellen looked slightly annoyed at having to lay all her cards on the table. 'Yes,' she admitted. 'I'm rather… _vulnerable_ at the moment,' she said with a hint of distaste. 'And I don't have to be incredibly perceptive to realise that the entire house hates me. Thus, I need allies. You're a sixth year, you know plenty of magic…' She shrugged.

'So you want protection,' he summarised. 'And me? Do I get anything out of this?'

As he'd expected, she hesitated, biting her lip in a rather childlike manner and looking down at the floor.

'No,' he finished bluntly. 'What makes you think I'd ally myself with you, if I had nothing to gain? If you had nothing that I didn't have'

She looked up at him sharply, her eyes narrow, challenging. 'You haven't got any friends,' she pointed out.

Strangely, that almost hurt, just the tiniest pinprick of pain near his heart. 'Slytherins don't have friends,' he hissed, glaring at her.

Ellen scoffed. 'I may be a Mudblood, but I'm not completely stupid,' she told him. 'Everyone has friends, Slytherins just _pretend_ they don't.'

It was true, in a way; they lacked the easy, open friendships the Gryffindors flaunted carelessly, but years of relying on, helping and trusting each other formed their own bonds. Draco scowled, feeling somehow uncomfortable, filling with a different kind of anger that was harsh and cold and muttered to itself in a dark corner of his heart. 

'We don't have friends,' he spat again, getting to his feet. Ellen looked up at him, seeming alarmed, and he was struck by just how small the first-years were. 'And we don't have pointless alliances with… with _Mudbloods_.'

He turned his back on her and headed for the exit, wondering why that final word had left such a bitter aftertaste on his mouth, and why Ellen's talk about friendship had given him such cold, hard, painful feelings in his chest.

~*~

The Prefect's bathroom was mercifully empty – Draco assumed that the other Prefects must be doing homework or chatting to friends – so he had decided to try taking a long, hot soak in the huge bath. He'd never understood why people enjoyed baths, as a Fallen. They wasted time, and showers were more hygienic anyway. But as a human, he was beginning to understand that baths were more relaxing; it certainly provided a good place for thought.

The mermaid was fast asleep in her painting on the wall beside a newly-added mirror, and the soft lighting from the chandelier gave the whole room a sleepy, gentle feel, when combined with the smell from Draco's favourite taps – a mixture of cinnamon and incense, which covered the water with silvery foam. He leant back against the side of the bath, blowing a speck of foam off his nose, and thought.

Despite the soothing atmosphere of the bathroom, he still felt the residues of his conversation with Ellen. The annoying part of that was he didn't know what he was feeling, except it felt like carrying a cold pebble in his chest. Even with the books he'd read, he didn't have a clue about some things…

He had to think logically. What had caused the feeling? Ellen's comment about friends, and another, smaller cause had been the word Mudblood. He had a feeling about the cause of the latter, but he found himself reluctant to admit it. And he didn't have a clue about the friendship comment, which left him toying with the half-formed notion about Muggleborns. 

Sighing, he pushed off from the side and swam the length of the bathtub, finding that the physical exertion helped push away emotions. The foam got in his hair, and his eyes, so he tried swimming underwater until the water got into his eyes and made them sore. Unaccountably restless, he kicked around in the water until it started to get cold, when he reluctantly got out, not looking forward to returning to the common room.

He was just towelling himself dry when a voice spoke, an all-too-familiar voice, shy and hesitant, 'Hiya, sweetheart.'

Draco froze in surprise, the fluffy white towel around his waist and his hair dripping water onto the marble floor below. 'I would have appreciated it, _Rita_,' he began in a clipped voice as he found his tongue, tying the towel around his waist, 'if you had told me you were here _before_ my bath.'

'Draco, dear, you've got nothing to be ashamed of,' the mirror replied as Draco turned to glare at it angrily. The mirror sighed. 'I suppose you haven't forgiven me yet then?'

'No,' he answered bluntly, picking up another towel from a pile in the corner and beginning to dry his hair. He began to feel annoyed – just when he thought he'd finally left her behind, she turned up again. 'Why are you here, anyway?'

'Dumbledore moved me here,' she replied, almost smugly. 'He came in the other day just before you went back to school, looking for you. He asked me if I knew how you were doing, we chatted for a bit, he moved me here.'

'He's an idiot, then,' Draco replied smoothly.

'Oh, I don't know, it's nicer here than it was at the Order. More people to chat to. Plus Euterpe's good company…'

'_Euterpe_?'

'The mermaid in that painting,' Rita explained. 'We get on well, you know, got the same interests…'

Removing the towel from his hair, Draco glared at the mirror. 'I don't much care about your social life.'

Rita's voice sounded sad. 'Why won't you forgive me?'

Draco grabbed up the pile of his clothes and started dressing. 'Because you betrayed me to Hermione,' he pointed out bitterly.

'For your own good!'

Draco, pulling on his robe, didn't reply.

'Look, Draco, you have to admit I did do it for a good reason. You needed help, you still do need help, and I…' she paused. 'I'm just a mirror, I can't help you with that. I wanted you to have someone who could help you…look, can you honestly say that Hermione hasn't helped you at all?'

His fingers, smoothing down the front of his robes, paused for a moment. Hermione _had_ helped him, it was true. But did that justify betrayal? He still felt the shock of Rita revealing all his secrets to an enemy, and it still hurt. But if good had come out of it…

Rita was still waiting for an answer to her question. 'She's helped,' Draco said offhandedly, as if it didn't matter.

'So why won't you forgive me?' Rita pleaded. 'It turned out for the best, didn't it?'

Draco paused for a long time before replying, facing away from Rita, his hair dampening the back of his robes. 'I used to think the ends justified the means,' he said at last. 'I'm not sure if they do anymore…'

There was a long silence, its sharpness softened by the dreamlike atmosphere of the room, the cinnamon scent still heavy in the air. Finally, Rita spoke up.

'Alright. You don't have to forgive me,' she said, and Draco thought she sounded rather sad. 'But please won't you just talk to me? I want to know if you're okay, how you're doing…'

He considered this. It couldn't really hurt, if he didn't trust her with anything important… 'Next time I come here, I'll talk to you,' he offered. 'But now I'm going back to my common room.'

'Okay,' said Rita softly. 'And thank you.'

He shrugged it off, though her _thank you_ gave him a warm feeling, as though he'd swallowed the bathwater and was full of its cinnamon-scented warmth. It was a dangerous feeling, Draco realised, as it suggested things to him: she didn't mean to hurt you, she only wants to help, why not forgive her…

He walked to the door, not looking back, and wouldn't have spoken again. But Rita, sounding happier, gave him a 'Bye, sweetheart. See you soon.'

Draco paused at the door. What could it hurt?

'Bye, Rita.'

~*~

**A/N: **I know it was rather centred on Draco: there were a few bits that needed to happen here and it was easier to put all of Draco's parts into one chapter. We resume more balanced chapters next week!

I'd normally tell you what the Latin bits meant here, but there's only the Slytherin password and no prizes for guessing that (remember the Romans had no j: the j in modern forms of Latin words replaces the Latin i.)

And yes, I do realise that Ella introduced herself by her proper first name, it's not a mistake. Explanation of that comes up later, though some of you may be able to guess.

And all that remains to be said is my usual weekly injunction to review. You know what I want by now! See, if I don't get many reviews, I get upset. If I get upset, the little voices in my head start trying to turn me to the Dark Side. If I turn to the Dark Side, I destroy the universe. And the universe is rather pretty, I'd quite like not to destroy it… so review. Quickly! The little voices are telling me to prepare the laser-guided-missile-bomb-of-ultimate-doom, weapon-to-end-all-other-weapons, Destroyer-of-the-Universe, Exploder-of-Galaxies, Crusher-of-Planets… oops, too late.

BOOM!

… or you could just review. I'll be in the asylum, unless anyone's seen my sanity lying around somewhere… review!


	17. Difficult Beginnings

**Chapter 16: Difficult Beginnings**

**Disclaimer:** I've asked God, Allah, Mithras, Jupiter, Odin, Osiris, Minerva, Aphrodite, the Muses, Dr. Pepper, Chocolate, the IPU and Draco Malfoy (a mixture of my favourite deities and the most highly-regarded ones) numerous times, and still none of them have granted me ownership of Harry Potter. How rude.

(special mentions and virtual chocolate go to the first person who knows what the IPU is!)

**Thanks for 468 reviews goes to: **Kaydera, skygazing, draconas, storm079, awkward, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole, Go10, JoeBob1379, Simpson-Girl, heavengurl899 (happy belated birthday!) Cuppy/Kami, mesmer, Sam8, OBXglider, kessi1011, Arafel2, willowfairy, jessiac (x2), KrystyWroth, PhAnToM-ChIK, ToOtHpIcK, Haystack8190, kat6528, PinkTribeChick, RedWitch1, Kiyoko, IceCristal, Gizelle, citcat299, MsLessa.

**A/N:** For those of you that didn't get the Slytherin password meaning, remember that the Latin I is our J, so change the I to J and read it aloud. I was being distinctly unsubtle with that one, so it's not difficult to guess! As to whether Muggleborns can actually get sorted into Slytherin, we aren't told specifically one way or another. The Sorting Hat lists it as one of the qualifications of a Slytherin 'those/ whose ancestry is purest', but I doubt most people have _all _the characteristics of the house they're in. Plus, the Sorting Hat appears able to make its own decisions regarding where people go as opposed to having to rigidly follow a set of rules – remember when it told Harry he'd be best in Slytherin but allowed him to go for Gryffindor?

That out of the way… I actually don't have anything to say this week. The first week back at school has tired me out! GCSEs are looming on the horizon quite frighteningly. I'm hoping to do well – cross your fingers! The hardest subject will be History, I think, as there's such a lot of dates and details to learn. And names. I have a complete mental block with names. I can remember Edwin Chadwick and that's it.

Anyway, onto Fallen. Pleased to announce that this chapter contains rather a lot of characters and Things Happening. It's quite scary to see how many plotlines I'm trying to weave together here… anyway. Read and Enjoy!

~*~

****

_Some people think only intellect counts: knowing how to solve problems, knowing how to get by, knowing how to identify an advantage and seize it. But the functions of intellect are insufficient without courage, love, friendship, compassion and empathy. _

**_Dean Koontz_**

****

~*~

'Dirty little rat, isn't it?'

The third-year Slytherin held the unfortunate rodent at arms length, pinching two fingers tightly round its middle as though the animal were infected and smirking cruelly as it squeaked and scrabbled, trying frantically to escape. He laughed, and the knot of his friends crowded around them joined in

'Stop it!' pleaded a young dark-haired girl, making a grab for her pet, but the taller Slytherin dangled it out of her reached and grinned as he stood on tiptoe, trying to get it back. 'You're hurting him, you're hurting Pip!'

The boy ignored her. 'Dirty little rat. Perfect pet for a dirty little…'

'_What_ is going on here?' interrupted a new voice, and the Slytherins looked up in sudden fear to see Hermione storming towards them, her expression furious. 'What are you doing to that rat?'

The Slytherin tried to hold Pip properly, giving the frightened animal a clumsy stroke. 'Only playing with him…' he said innocently.

The girl, a Hufflepuff by the badge on her robes, was quick to contradict him. 'He snatched my rat, and then he grabbed him round the middle and started scaring him and _hurting_ him,' she complained, her chubby round face woebegone.

Hermione, her anger ebbing slightly to be replaced by pity, frowned at the Slytherin, who was shifting uncertainly from foot to foot. 'You're Patrick Heffernan, aren't you?' The boy nodded. 'Give her back her rat, and if I ever catch you doing something like this again I shall speak to your Head of House and make certain you end up in detention. Is that clear?'  
  
The boy nodded sulkily, giving the Hufflepuff back her pet, and his knot of friends glared at Hermione before slouching off into breakfast. Hermione sighed and knelt down beside the little girl, who was trying to calm her frightened pet.  
  


'Are you alright? Is Pip?' she asked as the rat ran up the girl's sleeve, to hide by her elbow. The girl nodded.

'I'm okay, and Pip'll be okay too.' she said, awkwardly supporting the rodent with her free hand. 'Thanks for stopping them, I was scared they'd hurt him…'  
  
Hermione gave her a warm smile. 'It was nothing, really,' she said. 'Now come on, we're missing breakfast…'

They walked in together, and the girl gave her a wide dimpled smile before running off to join her friends at the Hufflepuff table. Hermione smiled after her, but her expression quickly faded into a worried frown. Slowly, she made her way to the Gryffindor table to sit beside the early-rising Ginny, already halfway through her breakfast and chatting to one of her friends.

'Hey,' said Ginny as Hermione sat down, 'Where's Ron and Harry? And what's wrong? You look like you just swallowed Cockroach Cluster.'

'They're upstairs, finishing an essay,' Hermione sighed, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. 'And as to what's wrong, I just had to stop a Slytherin from bullying a poor Hufflepuff girl. He'd stolen her rat and was being really mean to it. The poor thing was terrified.'

'Poor thing? Do you mean the girl or the rat?' asked Ginny's friend, biting into a thickly-buttered slice of toast.

'The rat, but the girl was scared too,' Hermione clarified. 'And I think they were about to call her a… you know… a Mudblood.' She shuddered as she said the word, anger and distaste crossing her face.

'What were they saying?' Ginny asked, helping herself to a sausage.  
  
'Something like, 'Dirty little rat for a dirty little…' and then I interrupted them,' Hermione said with a sigh. 'It doesn't take much to guess what was coming next…'

Ginny's friend shrugged. 'What's so unusual about that? People call people Mudbloods all the time,' she pointed out.

Hermione gave her a serious look, not unlike the one she wore when attempting to convince people of the importance of SPEW. 'Because it's prejudice,' she said earnestly, 'and its prejudice like this which leads to things like Voldemort.'

'Don't say the name!' she hissed, flinching. 'And it's just a word, I mean, its not like they were going to use an Unforgivable on her…'

Hermione met Ginny's eyes. 'I'll talk to her later,' Ginny mouthed. Hermione nodded her thanks and went back to her breakfast, tearing absently at a piece of toast.  
  
~*~

He'd arranged to meet her in the library, at a little table in the back corner not many people knew about. Draco knew of it, of course – he'd made it his business to discover everything he could about the castle – and Hermione often used it for studying and homework.  
  
She was there first, waiting for him in a shadowed corner, scribbling on a piece of parchment. He got close enough to read the title on the top – _Proposal for the Continuation and Expansion of Dumbledore's Army_ – before she realised he was there; she jumped slightly, before giving him a hesitant smile.

'Hi,' she said, a little awkwardly, rolling her parchment up and slipping it back into her bag. Her bushy hair was scooped haphazardly into a messy pile atop her head, held up with what appeared to be an elastic band in an attempt to keep the hair out of her eyes. An attempt that was failing miserably.

He nodded a greeting, sliding silently into the nearest seat, diagonally across from Hermione. She looked up from putting her quill and inkpot away in her bag with a frown, and caught his eyes with a curious look; he quickly looked away. There was a silence.

The situation felt strangely awkward, neither of them appearing sure what to do next. Frowning, Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat without realising he was moving at all. He'd accepted her offer because he knew he needed hep. It hadn't occurred to him that he didn't even know how he could be helped.

'So…' Hermione began, obviously at a similar loss, 'have the books helped?'  
  
He inclined his head. 'A little,' he said. 'Sometimes things are a bit confusing and contradictory. I've worked some things out…'

She nodded, knocking a persistent strand of hair out of her eyes. 'What things are confusing?'  
  
He paused for a moment, feeling for some reason uncomfortable about saying any of this aloud, to her. After all, she'd been an enemy until recently… he couldn't count her as one any more, he realised. He didn't know what she was any longer.

He forced his mind back to the question. 'Compassion,' he said at last.

'Okay,' Hermione began,  'well, compassion basically means…'

He interrupted her, 'Yes, I know what it _is_,' he said, rather more snappily than he meant to. Something about this felt like having an insect with very thin, very sharp legs walking softly up his spine. Uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat. 'What I mean is, it doesn't make any _sense_.'

She frowned at this, leaning forward. 'Why not?' she asked, appearing puzzled.

'Because it's illogical,' he said simply, irritably. A kind of anger was rising in him as he talked about it, the kind he felt whenever he wrestled with the problem for hours on end and couldn't see the solution. 'Because… why would you help someone when it doesn't benefit yourself?'

'It's the moral thing to do…' she said simply, then paused for a moment, one hand playing with a fraying thread on the sleeve of her robe. 'Draco… when you were reading the books, did you ever feel the same way as the characters were?'

'Yes…' he frowned. 'Sometimes.'

'Well, that's compassion,' she replied simply. 'When you can feel someone else's pain as though it were your own.'

Draco paused for a moment. He could grasp the concept of feeling what someone else did – all that took was imagination – but the consequences of it were irrational. He tried to think his way around it.

'So when people feel compassion, they help the other person in order to stop themselves feeling the emotion?' he asked, finding the only explanation that made sense. One of the few things he did know about emotions was that they were painful.

But Hermione seemed uncertain. 'No…' she said at last, the syllable long and thoughtful. 'Not really. It's more that… you know what it'd feel like to be in their situation, and you want to help them out of it.'

'Why?' he asked blankly.

'Because… because you do,' Hermione said pathetically, sweeping a hand through the messy, loose bits of hair at the side of her head and managing to make it even worse. 'Its hard to explain why. There isn't a logical reason.'

'But no one would put themselves in danger without a good reason,' Draco protested. 'If it was something easy, something small, I could understand it. Like giving money to charity or something. But people _die_ for it. Why?'

Hermione appeared to be having difficulty answering, rubbing at the knuckle of her thumb pensively, and Draco felt a surge of annoyance. How was she meant to help him when she didn't have a clue herself? How hard could it be for her to come up with an answer? After all, she'd felt emotions all her life.

'I don't know why they do,' she said at last, frowning. 'At least, there isn't a logical reason why…'

'There has to be,' Draco snapped. 'If people are sacrificing themselves because of it…'  
  
'There isn't,' she cut in firmly. 'They do it because they care about other people… because they feel compassion for the other person and want them to live.'

He glared at her. 'Granger, you aren't making any sense. It's completely _illogical_.'

'Well emotions aren't logical,' she pointed out, frustrated. 'I am trying, you know, but emotions are tricky…'

'Really? I hadn't realised.' Draco snapped, getting suddenly to his feet. 

'What are you doing?'  
  
'Going,' he replied. 'If all we're going to do is sit here going in circles, I may as well leave.'

With that, he strode away, ignoring Hermione's protests. He felt… some form of anger, if you made it less intense and put a sharp edge on it. She hadn't helped at all, only made him more confused.

_Now_ where could he go to get advice?

~*~

'Come _on_, Harry,' grumbled Ron. He looked at his watch for the tenth time in two minutes, slouching against the wall of the Quidditch changing rooms, holding his broomstick in one hand. 'I've been waiting ages!'

Inside, Harry was startled out of his thoughts by his friend's complaint. 'Er… okay, give me a minute,' he called, even though he was already changed, and had been for five minutes. Harry hadn't meant to keep Ron waiting, but he'd gotten distracted.

He ran his hand once again over the smooth, polished wood that made the handle of his Firebolt. It was filled with memories – memories of receiving the mysterious package after his Nimbus was shattered, of Ron's elations, Hermione's suspicions and the subsequent barrage of tests… they'd fallen out at the time, but the funny thing was, Hermione had been right. Sirius Black _had_ sent the broomstick…

_Sirius_…

Harry was trying to forget, but it was hard. Little things kept bringing the memory of Sirius to mind – his Firebolt for example. Or Ron's little owl, or any mention of dogs, or looking out at the night sky on a clear night; Sirius, the Dog Star, was always shining.

Harry missed him terribly, with a terribly painful ache that felt like his very heart was choking. He'd needed an adult like him, someone old enough and knowledgeable enough to help when he needed it, but with the wicked grin and impish ways that made him different to Dumbledore or Lupin. Sirius had never grown up, not at heart.

And if he closed his eyes, Harry could still see Sirius falling backwards into the veil, as if the image had been tattooed onto the back of his eyelids. That made it worse. The _guilt_.

Ron was still waiting outside, Harry remembered. Pushing himself to his feet, he slowly made his way to the door and pushed it open, meeting his friend's impatient expression.

'You were _ages_ getting ready,' he complained, falling into step beside his friend as they walked up to the Quidditch pitch. 'I can't wait to get flying again, I've been reading that book on Keeper strategies and there's some really amazing things in there I want to try. There's this one thing I read where you position yourself so it looks like you're going to go one way, so they go the opposite way. But you're actually ready to go and intercept them. It's kind of complicated, I'll have to show you… Harry?'

Harry glanced up; he'd been staring gloomily at the dusty path. 'What?' he asked.

'Were you listening to _anything_ I was saying?' Ron asked, his forehead creasing in a frown.

'Sorry, I guess I was distracted,' Harry replied with a rather small smile. 'What were you saying?'

Ron rolled his eyes. 'I was talking about this new Keeper strategy I read about, where you look like you're going to go one way, and then…' Ron trailed off, seeing that Harry was staring distantly at the ground in front of him again. 'And then a flock of penguins invades the Quidditch pitch, lights a barbeque and turns the opposing team into kebabs,' he finished, just to make sure Harry wasn't paying attention. He wasn't.

'Harry?' Ron called, waving a hand in front of his friends face. Harry started, stopping dead.

'Sorry,' he said again when he realised he'd not been paying attention. 'I'm just a little…'

'Is it about Sirius?'

Ron's question stopped Harry dead; he hadn't expected Ron to realise, and certainly not to be so upfront about it. Most of the others still tiptoed around the subject. Quietly, avoiding eye contact, he said. 'Yeah…'

Ron gave him a worried grin. 'It's okay,' he said, 'I mean…' There was rather a long pause, and Ron sighed. 'I wish Hermione or Ginny were here, I'm awful at thinking up things to say.'

Harry looked up. 'Don't worry; you don't need to say anything. It's _my_ problem…'

'Yes, and you're _my_ friend,' Ron pointed out firmly. 'I want to help, I'm just useless at it.'

'You aren't,' Harry tried to tell him, 'really, you aren't useless at all.'

Ron gave a strange smile with only one side of his mouth. 'Nah, I'm useless,' he proclaimed. 'Come on, lets go flying. That'll cheer you up.'

Harry glanced at his broomstick, clutched tightly in one hand. Sirius would have wanted him to fly on it. That was why he'd bought it, after all. He remembered Sirius saying how he'd snuck into the Quidditch stadium during games in his dog form, just to watch him play. _You fly like your father, Harry…_ The memory brought a smile to his face.

'Lets go flying,' Harry agreed.

~*~  
  
'No, no, no, no, _no_!' Ginny protested, shaking her head firmly. 'You absolutely _cannot_ drink Butterbeer with apple juice in it. I forbid you.'

Dean, sitting beside her on the couch, grinned and shrugged. 'Its actually really nice. If a little weird,' he admitted. 'But you get used to it.'

She shook her head, looking absolutely disgusted, and leant back into the padded crimson cushions. 'I can't believe you'd actually drink that,' she muttered.

'It's nice,' Dean repeated, sounding hurt. 'You should try it. How can you know you don't like it unless you've tried it?'

'Because the very idea is repulsive. You'll never get me to try it in a million years,' Ginny said firmly.

'I'll slip you a glass when you aren't expecting it.'

'Don't you dare!'

Dean gave her a leisurely grin, the threat sparkling in his eyes. 'We're in Gryffindor, remember, we're _meant_ to be daring.'  
  
'Yes, but I don't recall the Sorting Hat describing us as 'very likely to have their internal organs decorating the walls of the Great Hall for many years to come if they ever so much as try getting their girlfriends to drink apple juice mixed with Butterbeer,' she smirked.

'Alright, alright. Consider me warned,' Dean replied. 'Besides, the Sorting Hat wouldn't have said that, it doesn't rhyme. Or have rhythm.'

Ginny waved a hand vaguely. 'Poetic licence.'

Dean snorted, and was about to reply when Hermione, burst through the portrait hole, grinning widely and clutching a bundle of papers in her hand.

'Guess what?' she asked, sitting down beside Ginny and beaming at her.

Dean cut in with his reply. 'I know! Aliens invaded the school, turned the Great Hall into their base of operation, and are setting about Transfiguring all the really annoying people in England into ants.'

Ginny raised an eyebrow at him. 'Well, you'll be the first to go then, won't you?' He replied very maturely by sticking his tongue out at her.

Hermione, meanwhile, was humming with excitement. 'No, nothing to do with aliens,' she proclaimed.

'Just tell us, Hermione,' Ginny protested.

'Alright,' Hermione held up the sheets she was holding. 'I just went to Dumbledore with the proposal to carry on the DA, and he said it was a brilliant idea, so we've got permission to start organising it!'

'Cool!' exclaimed Dean. 'So you're doing it again, are you?'

'Yup,' Ginny nodded. 'And we're doing a separate one for first to third years – did he say yes to that too?'

Hermione nodded. 'But we have to have one sixth or seventh-year for every ten students. Safety precautions, and they need to be properly supervised. Oh, and he wants the _official_ name to be the Defence Association – political stuff, Fudge is still pretty paranoid… But of course, we'll all know what it really is.'

'Brilliant,' Ginny grinned. 'It's going to be great. When did you find the time to write it all out, Hermione? It must have taken ages…'  
  
'Only an hour or so, I did it after my Transfiguration homework…'

Dean's face fell. 'We have Transfiguration homework?' he asked. 'When for…?'

'Tomorrow's lesson,' Hermione replied. 'The essay on combining two spells to produce an advanced or difficult effect…?'

Dean swore sharply. 'I forgot all about that!' he moaned. 'I'd better go do it now… bye, Ginny…' He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before leaping up and running off to find parchment and a quill.

Ginny shook her head. 'Dean forgets everything,' she remarked. 'He'd forget his ears if they weren't glued on…'

Hermione nodded, a slight frown on her face. Ginny and Dean were going out, weren't they? She couldn't really have missed that fact, Ron had been touchy about it all summer. But, apart from Dean's brief kiss, they'd been acting more like friends than boyfriend and girlfriend.

'How… serious… are you and Dean?' Hermione asked, before realising that it might not be the best of subjects. 'Er… I mean…'

'Serious?' Ginny asked with a frown. 'I've not really thought… I guess we aren't very serious, really.'

Hermione nodded. 'I thought you might not be,' she admitted. 'You do… _like_ him, don't you?'

'Like him? Yeah, I wouldn't have said yes when he asked me out if I didn't,' she replied. 'He's witty, friendly, good fun to chat to… oh, and he has a really gorgeous arse.' 

Hermione raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. Ginny laughed. 'What? He has!'

'I'll take your word for it,' Hermione said with an amused smile, and turned back to matters with which she was more familiar – the DA planning. 'Okay, we need to decide how we're going to advertise the DA, we want to get plenty of interest in it…

~*~

**A/N: **And we've come to the end of another week's odyssey into the weird and wonderful world that my twisted little mind's plunged you into. My twisted little mind is doing very well in the asylum, and the wardens tell me they have high hopes of being able to unstrap it from the bed soon and let it run around in just a straitjacket. If you'd like to thank it for the story, the review box is ready and waiting to take your comments… if you don't thank it, it might turn into a raging psychopath and murder you bloodily. It's very disturbed, you see…

Review!


	18. An Act Of Compassion

**Chapter 17: An Act Of Compassion**

**Disclaimer:** Don't own it. Might steal it. Oooh, I could lock J.K.Rowling in my closet and use Polyjuice to imitate her! Except I don't have a closet. Oh, well, another brilliant plan down the drain.

**Thanks for 498 reviews goes to: **awkward, Storm079, skygazing, draconas, relena333, Go10, jules37, ToOtHpIcK, JoeBob1379, Madam Midnight, Willowfairy, Flexi Lexi, KrystyWroth, citcat299, RedWitch1, Simrun, Haystack8190, Lady Ancient Serpent, Sam8, PinkTribeChick, tennisplaya278, heavengurl899, Saotoshi, Kiyoko, Plaidly Lush.

**A/N:** More word-related questions; I don't know what it's like in other areas of England, but where I am, we definitely say arse. Or ass. 

Anyway. This was another 'very late finish' ones, because the muses battered my round the ears and forced me to write a one-shot. Which I actually really like. A Fetching Shade Of Pain, available through my profile. Go read!

I'd write more, but time is short, I'm exhausted and my bed is calling to me. Enjoy!

~*~

_If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion._

**_The Dali Lama_**

~*~

Draco attempted to draw his concentration back to his Arithmancy homework. Over the holidays, he'd found Arithmancy enjoyable – in the firm structure of numbers and formulae, he could find the familiar touch of cool, calm logic that had been thrown into turmoil by these nonsensical emotions. 

But Professor Vector, rather apologetically, had explained that they had to cover a rather boring piece of number manipulation before they progressed to more exciting things. The problem with it was that it didn't require any kind of thought, just repetitive sums and calculations and nothing interesting, nothing requiring great logical feats. Before things had changed, Draco wouldn't even have noticed that there was a difference in the kinds of work. Now, though…

Boredom, he realised, was quite an easy emotion to place. It was like having a tiny five-year-old in your skull screaming, 'I want something to _do_!' Of course, he had something to do – Arithmancy homework. But the emotional part of him couldn't accept that. Which left him sitting in the common room and forcing himself to concentrate.

He scribbled down the answers to the next few sums, but then his mind began to wander disconcertingly. His mind had _never_ wandered as a Fallen, never gone off track when he'd wanted to remain focused on one thing…

But now it did. He found himself thinking about anything and everything; the decoration on the large fireplace, the clusters of Slytherins talking quietly, the oddly chilly feeling in the air. His eyes settled on the group around the fire. Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle… _his_ group. He should have been among them, thinking of new ways to mock Potter and his entourage, keeping up his pretence of being human.

He found it odd that it had been easier to pretend to be human than it was to actually be human.

No, he had to concentrate on his homework. He couldn't let human things get in the way of his work… But before he could put quill to parchment, a voice caught his attention. It was low-pitched, and half the room away from him, but he still heard it as loudly and clearly as though someone had crept up to his ear and shouted it.

'_Mudblood_.'

His eyes swept upwards of their own accord, pinpointing the source of the voice, already half-knowing what he'd see there. Ellen, surrounded by a bunch of sneering third-years. He'd expected this.

She had her wand with her, but even as she faced the older students defiantly Draco knew she hadn't a chance. What could she do, transfigure a match into a needle? He gave the common room a quick scan – very few of the neutral group to which she'd attached herself were there, and the ones that were didn't seem about to do anything to help her. Not when she was so new to the group. One second-year attempted to step forward, to try and defend Ellen, but a pair of third-years quietly detached themselves from the group and held her back, wands out.

The common room had fallen quiet to watch, except for the knot of sixth and seventh years around the fireplace, the group that held the most highly regarded of Slytherin. They ignored it, which meant they approved. Let the attack commence.

'Just a warning to you. We don't want Mudbloods in Slytherin,' one of the third-years said, leisurely toying with his wand. The ringleader. Draco could sense the attention in the room, the ripples that this event would cause. People adding new information to what they already knew about the boy, figuring out what would change because of this attack. That was how Slytherins worked.

Ellen gripped her useless wand and stood firm, not showing fear. 'It doesn't matter what you want. The Sorting Hat put me here. I'm meant to be here and I'm staying…'

'You _aren't_ meant to be here.' The third-year cut in sharply. 'You don't belong here. You aren't wanted.'

He must have given some signal, because at that moment one of the girls behind Ellen muttered a quick spell, sending the unfortunate Ellen staggering in sudden pain. She looked ridiculously small surrounded by people two years older than her, thin dishwater-blonde hair falling down to hide her face.

It wasn't his problem. Ellen was none of his concern, and he turned his mind back to the Arithmancy. He ought to get this finished…

Another spell, and a stifled cry. Draco's quill jerked on the parchment. He told himself the noise had merely startled him, though he knew full well that he was fully focused on the fight. It was impossible to attend to his work.

She was none of his concern!

It wasn't even a proper fight. It was nothing more than a gang of bullies attacking a defenceless victim. Another spell, another cry, and Draco's hand tightened on his quill. Why did he feel drawn to interfere…?

Arithmancy. Numbers and formulas and…

The numbers became meaningless on the page. Another spell, another cry, and Draco found he couldn't even focus on the world any more, his mind turned completely to his awareness of the fight, of Ellen, of what she could be feeling. An imperfect understanding, as his knowledge of emotions was imperfect, but he didn't need understanding to know what pain was, what suffering was.

He couldn't interfere. It was illogical. She was none of his concern. He even wrote it on a piece of scrap parchment, as if the act of doing so would make it true. _She is none of my concern._

Another spell, another cry.

And he couldn't deny the compulsion to help her. However firmly he told himself that it was illogical, that the last thing he needed in his outcast position was to publicly help a Mudblood, he was compelled to help her. Not because he could imagine her pain, but because of something _other_…

He knew what it was, of course, and there was still no explanation for it. There was no logic in it, only the pressing urge not to stand back and watch someone suffer. _No_. He repeated the sound, over and over in his head. _No_. He wouldn't help her, wouldn't give in to the compulsion, wouldn't abandon logic for these strange and frightening and irrational emotions… none of the other Slytherins were inflicted with a desire to help her. He was truly an outcast, truly didn't belong…

Another spell, another cry, and he couldn't help himself any more. He stood, drawing his wand from his pocket. 

'That's enough,' he said. Ellen, down on her knees on the floor in pain, looked at him with some surprise. 

'You have no authority over me, _Malfoy_,' the leader snarled, using Draco's surname as a taunt. A reminder of what was gone. 

'Am I or am I not still a Prefect?' Draco asked icily. The room was silent.

The leader glanced towards the knot of Draco's old companions, but they made no move to challenge Draco. One corner his mouth curved in a –everyone knew full well that he was the best at Dark Arts in the whole of Slytherin house, and when it could come down to a duel, no one would be so foolhardy as to challenge him. There were wards against Dark Arts, of course, but the lesser and more obscure spells slipped through that net. And he knew every one of them.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the third-year gave the briefest nod, motioned to his allies, and turned away. The vicious group gave Draco dirty looks as they trooped away, deprived of their fun. Conversation broke out again – all of it about him, Draco knew.

Ellen pushed herself to her feet, one hand pressed to her cheek where blood was leaking between her fingers, the other on her side, which appeared to be in pain. She regarded Draco with unusually pale blue eyes.

He didn't want anything more to do with her. His place had already dropped even further, if there existed a lower level for him to inhabit, and he didn't want to tarnish himself any more by speaking to her. He turned away.

But she spoke to him. 'I thought you weren't my ally.'

'I'm _not_,' he replied harshly. 'I'm a Prefect. It was my… job.'

'That didn't stop Parkinson from sitting back and ignoring what was going on,' Ellen pointed out wryly. 'Why were you different?'

He looked back at her over his shoulder, glaring, and didn't answer. 'Go find Madam Pomfrey,' he ordered her, before walking swiftly back to the safe logic of his Arithmancy work.

Not so swift that he didn't hear her softly call, 'Thank you.'

He _hated_ compassion.

~*~

'Did you just say _coochie-coo_?'

Dean looked incredibly embarrassed. 'Well, er, I mean…'

'Don't deny it,' Ginny told him, grinning. 'I _heard_ you. You said coochie-coo to my cat.'

Ron snorted, amused. 'Coochie-coo? We'll have to throw you out of the boys' dorm if you say that again!'

'Well I think it's sweet,' Ginny said in defence of her boyfriend, giving him an almost flirtatious smile, and Dean grinned. Ron's expression soured slightly – he was alright when Ginny and Dean were acting like friends, but clearly wasn't comfortable when they acted like anything else.

'I didn't mean to say it,' Dean explained. 'I've got this absolutely batty grandma, you see, mad on cats, and she always goes around going coochie-coo and stuff to her cats. I guess I kinda… picked it up.'

He scratched Kass absentmindedly behind the ears, and she mewed in pleasure. She seemed to be settling in well though her relationship with Crookshanks was occasionally volatile. Half the time they got on perfectly - the rest of the time they were hissing at each other.

Hermione felt the familiar nudge at her ankles, reached down with her left hand and gave Crookshanks' head a good rub. Her right hand, and the focus of her attention, was on what she was writing.

_…Association. Everyone is welcome, whatever their year or house, to learn vital defensive skills and strategies. Meeting times…_

The hubbub of the common room wasn't the best place to be writing this in, especially with her friends close by. But it was only a short advert, and she'd spend longer walking to and from the library than she'd spend actually writing the thing. She considered her next sentence, then put quill to parchment once more.

When she finished, five minutes later, she read over the advert again. She didn't think there was anything missing… 'Harry?' she asked, glancing up at the boy sitting beside her. 'Could you read… _Harry_?'

He wasn't paying attention, staring at a stitched gold decoration on the back of the sofa, quite clearly unaware of anything going on around him. Hermione frowned, feeling even more worried.

'Harry?' she tried again, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. That must have done it, because he started upright, his glasses sliding alarmingly down his nose.

'Are you alright?' was the first question she asked. He nodded, pushing his glasses back up to their proper place.

'I'm fine. Sorry, I was just thinking…'

Hermione had a feeling she knew what he'd been thinking about, but didn't quite want to ask. Mentioning it aloud would probably just make things worse.

'I was just wondering if you wanted to read through the advert before I copied it,' she asked. 

'Oh. Sure, let me see,' Harry agreed without much enthusiasm, and Hermione wordlessly handed the paper over. Harry scanned the first few lines listlessly, and she could see his attention wandering. Biting her lip, she glanced over to where Ron was absently playing with Kass' ears, chattering to Ginny and Dean. She caught his eye, motioned towards Harry. 'Can you distract him?' she mouthed.

Ron frowned, giving a brief nod, and Ginny skilfully struck up a new conversation with Dean to prevent him questioning the exchange that had just gone on. Hermione gently reached out to the parchment, gave it a brief tug under Harry's hand, which startled him back to reality.

'Do you think it's okay?' she asked, knowing perfectly well that he hadn't read more than the first paragraph. Harry gave her a nod, letting her take the parchment back. She had to do something to help him, she knew as Ron leaned over to begin conversation. The only thing was, she didn't know how. 

'What about that new Quidditch foul they're thinking of bringing in then, Harry? That one with the Beaters and Snitches…'

Quidditch. What a predictable topic. Hermione smiled, unpinning her Prefect badge and setting it atop the advertisement. She muttered a quick spell; '_Quattuor_!' and the parchment shimmered, rippled like water, and vanished. A copy of it appeared on the notice board on the opposite side of the room, and exact duplicates would have pinned themselves to the notice boards in the other three house common rooms. It was a little bit of magic built into the Prefect badges, to make things easier.

She had to help Harry. She said she didn't know how to help him, but she'd helped Draco, hadn't she? Or at least tried to. She hadn't been very successful with explaining compassion…

The thing was, compassion didn't have any kind of easy explanation. Draco was quite right: it defied logic. She'd grown up with emotions and feelings, after all, and she was used to them not making rational sense. She'd never even noticed that they didn't before – compassion was compassion, caring was caring and love was love; they needed no more justification than that. But from what she understood, Fallens seemed to work on nothing but logic. Like _machines_. Not human at all.

It gave some perspective of what Draco must be going through. Not to think of it as merely someone experiencing emotions who'd never felt them before, but as someone whose whole mind had undergone a drastic change, the very fabric that made up the way they thought _warped_, altered completely.

It made her more determined to help him. There had to be some logic to compassion, somewhere. There was the little logic that stated that, if you risked yourself for someone else, others would think more highly of you, or you could get a reward, or you could feel good about yourself. But all of those were lies, things that people might say if desperately attempting to come up with an answer. They weren't explanations of compassion, just side effects of it.

You helped people because it was right to help them. Because life was the most precious, the most beautiful and most mysterious thing there was, and where there was pain or suffering or danger, you wanted to stop it, because it was detrimental to life. But that was just an explanation too, albeit a closer one to the truth. Compassion couldn't be explained. Like altruism, and love, and charity. People risked or sacrificed thing for another, without reason or logic, and in some way that defied explanation it was noble, and good, and perfect. 

But how could you explain all that to someone who didn't understand emotions?

Her attention was distracted at that point by Crookshanks, who was sitting on Dean's knee while he earnestly discussed Quidditch with the others. He, mewling angrily, had pounced onto the nearby table and attacked the front page of the Daily Prophet; a photograph of a pretty young girl cowered in fear as the cat clawed at the image.

'Crookshanks! Stop that, someone might want to read that paper,' Hermione chided as Ginny dragged the cat back. Kass, from her vantage point on Ginny's lap, hissed at poor Crookshanks and scratched him firmly across the nose before stalking off to curl up on Harry's knee. Crookshanks gave a pitiful meow, and Hermione was forced to forget her thoughts in favour of caring for her cat.

~*~

_Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew…_

Draco was barely two pages into the book, and already his mind was wandering. He tried again.

…_grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog…_

He couldn't concentrate, and he snapped the book closed in disgust, the gold letters mockingly glinting _To Kill A Mockingbird_ at him. Dropping it carelessly on the floor, he stretched out on his bed, pillowing his head in his arms and thinking.

It was evening; he had about half an hour before anyone would even think of coming to bed. Maybe an hour. His Arithmancy was finished, as was his other work, and he'd retreated to the dormitory after finding the sharp stares and quiet conversations too much. He'd helped a Mudblood. He was truly an outcast now.

Emotions were horrible, illogical, foolish things. Draco could still feel the Fallen part of him like a separate self, struggling to take control once more. He'd tried to give in to it to switch back to a Fallen, but his human mind had too strong a sense of self-preservation to do that. Was it his imagination, or did the Fallen part of him seem stronger? Perhaps it could get strong enough to reclaim possession; then he wouldn't have to fight with emotions anymore…

A loud tap from the window startled him, and his hand was on the hilt of his wand before he realised it was an owl. And _this_ was odd; the way that just a sound could frighten him, could make his heart beat harder and his lungs breathe faster. Humanity was incredibly strange.

He crossed to the window, recognising his father's owl, a dark black figure on the windowsill. The wind blew with sudden vehemence when he unlatched the glass, a chilling gust blew his hair back, made the fabric of his black robes ripple. The owl flew inside with a few short flaps of its wings, and Draco quickly closed the window behind it.

He untied the parchment from the owl's leg, opened it and quickly scanned his father's familiar, perfectly formed script.

_Draco, _

_It is logical to assume that you have become human. While this may have initially impaired your reasoning, humans have the capability for logic and rationality. Emotions are merely an impairment that must be ignored._

_While this difficulty has had detrimental effects, you are not unintelligent, and will be able to recover in time with dedicated effort. It is illogical to do anything other._

_-Lucius_

The wording was oddly familiar; the simple, factual, measured voice that his father used when he wasn't acting the part of a human, the same tone that he had used himself. Emotionless.

An impairment? Draco's expression darkened, the parchment creasing where he held it. Lucius had been a Fallen all his life; had never felt the impossible rush of emotions that accompanied humanity. It wasn't a mere impediment; it made logic completely impossible.

Like with Ellen, and compassion. He'd known how foolish that was, how illogical an act, and yet he'd helped her because his feelings made him, because he couldn't _not_ help.

His father had never felt that. A bitter fire seemed to be burning inside him, just below the breastbone; he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it onto the floor in disgust.  With a wave of his wand and an '_Incendio!_' set the parchment on fire. It wouldn't do for one of the others to read it.

Why was he human and not his father? It was a ridiculous question, he realised as soon as he thought it – because he had received whatever stimulus it was that changed him from Fallen to human, and his father hadn't. That was all.

But still a little voice whined on, _Why me? Why me? I want to be Fallen, not human, why didn't it happen to him?_

Draco ignored it. It would do no good to wish it had been Lucius who now suffered these things instead of himself. Instead, he crossed again to the window, opened it and let the black owl fly out silently, without a reply. He couldn't have written one, couldn't have explained anything or made any excuses his father could understand.

Closing his window, he returned to his bed, picked up his book and tried to lose himself in the description of fictional Maycomb.

~*~

**A/N: **Right then. I'm exhausted, Draco doesn't like being human, Harry's still miserable and Dean's making accidental embarrassing slips when talking to cats. None of us are having good days. You can't do much for them, poor sods, but you can cheer me up with a review!


	19. Rita's Gossip

**Chapter 18: Rita's Gossip**

**Disclaimer:** quaeris, quot mihi basationes | tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque… what? Who… notices the camera's on Oh. Oops… Sorry, I was revising Latin. Exams coming up, you know… Harry Potter belongs to JK, and the poetry belongs to Catullus. Great poetry :D

**Thanks for 531 reviews goes to: **draconas, awkward, Crimson Colored Cloaked Figure, DeLaney, jules37, Madam Midnight, stephanie, Kami, Storm079 (x2), tennisplaya278, Go10, SycoCallie, KrystyWroth, citcat299, RedWitch1, TheKidWonderLadyMistress, Haystack8190, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole, Kaydera, PinkTribeChick, mesmer, Willowfairy, Plaidly Lush, x Fallen x Serpent x, JoeBob1379, Sam8, Kami (x2), Pheonix, Princess of Light, nightshade, Saotoshi!

**A/N:** Happy 17th, Loulou!!!

I drew her a picture for her birthday. It featured a certain male character 'bound and helpless' with Slytherin-green ribbon… sadly, I'm forbidden to show it to you. I might try and draw more Fallen-related pictures in the future, though, if I have time… (on a related note, as someone asked, the old title-page thingy was lost from my hard drive ages ago. It wasn't very good anyway – I'll make you another when I have time!)

And time leads me to my next point. Sadly, I have exams coming up in just over a week (the Muggle equivalent of OWLS!!!) and the need to write Fallen is rapidly losing ground to the need to stay up till three in the morning doing twelve past papers, eleven mad mnemonics, ten boring essays, nine French exercises, eight Literature poems, seven Latin translations, six quadratic equations, five chemical reactions, four biological processes, three Laws of Physics, two pages of Latin vocab, and annotations in my To Kill A Mockingbird book.

Because of this, you might find that this chapter is somewhat shorter (and poorer) than others. I'm sorry. I am, after all, only human.

Due to ridiculous amounts of revision and a school trip all weekend (Stratford, to watch Shakespeare plays), plus getting burnt out from writing too much, I'm going to take a week off from writing next week. I'll do everything in my power to get the next chapter up in two week's time, but after that we're heading into the thick of exams. In that time, I really can't promise regular updates; most of my time will be spent studying or absolutely dead from exhaustion. I will, however, try to warn you beforehand when I can't update, and will try to update at least fortnightly.

After that, though, we're into wonderful summer holidays, when I shall reward you for your patience with all the one-shots and short stories I've been meaning to write for ages.

On a side note, fanfiction.net seems to be removing my usual scene-divider. I've put in horizontal rules for this chapter; I'll change them to normal as soon as the problem gets sorted.

Anyway, here's this weeks shorter-than-usual chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand. _

**_Frank Herbert (1920 - 1986)_**

* * *

Witches and wizards, in the many thousands of years of human history, had invented literally thousands of spells, curses, charms, hexes, potions, incantations and enchantments. They covered a vast range of human requirements, from medicine to fashion, Dark Arts to Astronomy; caring for dragons to duplicating letters.

Hermione knew this. As she forced her aching legs to walk up what must be their thirtieth staircase in the past hour, what she really wanted to know was why no one had invented a spell to see whether the Prefect's bathroom was free yet.

She'd walked all the way there, found the door locked and some embarrassingly bad singing echoing from within, and – not wanting to wait around in the corridor – had been forced to return to Gryffindor tower. Twenty minutes later, she'd set off again, determined that after she'd had her nice long soak in the bath she was going to go straight to the library and find some way of telling whether the bathroom was in use or not.

Turning into the corridor, she was immediately relieved to find that the singing had stopped. And the door handle, which glowed silver when the room was occupied, was its ordinary gold. Relieved that she wouldn't have to traipse back to the Gryffindor common room a second time, she hurried to the door and gave the password.

'Fizzy Pink Bubbles,' she told the door, and it obligingly swung open.

The room was still slightly damp with steam, and condensation misted the marble. Hermione always thought that stepping into a steamy bathroom must be a little like stepping into a tropical rainforest, if the rainforest had heaps of cloud-white towels and a huge bathtub in the middle. It was the air: the humidity and the warmth – if your imagination was strong enough, you could almost smell the rich scent of lush plants growing, hear the strange calls and cries of the bizarre and fascinating creatures that lived there…

She carefully closed the door, wanting to keep as much of the steam in as possible, and crossed to the bathtub. Hermione loved the sheer size of it, almost like a swimming pool, though she always felt vaguely guilty about using it – it must waste an incredible amount of water. But the sheer pleasure of relaxing in a warm, foam-filled pool of always brought her back.

Putting her bottle of shampoo down by the side, and grabbing one of the large bars of soap, she reached for her favourite tap – one that made a fountain where it hit the water, and produced lilac foam that smelt of lavender. But before she could turn it on, she heard a voice.

'Hermione? Is that you?'

She jumped so hard she almost slipped and fell into the tub. 'Who's there?' she demanded, looking round. Was someone spying on her? Who? It had been a female voice… quite familiar, too… 

'_Rita?_'

There _was_ a new mirror on the wall. She hadn't noticed it before, but now she gaped at it in astonishment. The mermaid, who'd been half-asleep when she came in, giggled and watched in amusement.

'It is you, then,' Rita said, sounding pleased. 'Will you be a darling and wipe all this condensation off, I can't see a thing…'

Hermione grabbed the nearest towel. 'But how did you get here?' she asked, as she began wiping the steam off the glass. 'I mean, you were at the Order…'

'Dumbledore brought me. Don't ask why, I haven't a clue how that delightful man's mind works, but I'm certain there's a method in his madness. Ah, that's better,' Rita said as Hermione wiped the last of the condensation away. 'I hate not being able to see.'

Hermione smiled at the mirror, watching her reflection smile back. 'Do you think it could have been for Draco?' she asked. 'I mean, he has told you things in the past… are you still fighting?'

'I'm not sure. He spoke to me last time he was in here… he's still mad, the poor boy, but I think he'll get over it. Eventually.' Rita paused. 'And it probably was something to do with Draco, Dumbledore was asking me loads of questions about how he was doing before he arranged to bring me here. Well, of course he'd be interested, it's not every day you meet someone who's never felt emotions before, the sweetheart.'

'Have you heard the latest gossip?' the mermaid asked in a voice that sounded like bubbles of water chiming together, startling Hermione for a moment – the mermaid didn't often speak.

'Oh, how could I forget! That Slytherin prefect, you know, the one with the really pointy nose, she was in here before and I managed to prise the most unbelievable piece of gossip out of her.' Rita gabbled. 'About Draco, too.'

Hermione couldn't help but be intrigued. 'What is it?'

'Well, you know how there was that darling little Muggleborn girl who got Sorted into Slytherin?' Rita asked excitedly, and Hermione nodded. 'Well, apparently last night some of the third-years were beating her up – in the middle of the common room, can you believe it, it's utterly shameful…'

'_What?_' They were actually _attacking_…?' Hermione asked, feeling the peculiar cold feeling that comes with suddenly going very pale. Just for being Muggleborn…

'I know, it's dreadful, the poor little girl. But they're Slytherins. _And_,' Rita gave a dramatic pause, 'Draco Malfoy stopped them.'

The news of the attack had been shocking but not unexpected; _this_ she was completely unprepared for. 'He stopped them?' Hermione asked incredulously. 'But why? I mean, he's always hated Muggleborns… well, _acted_ like he hated them.'

'Haven't a clue,' Rita said cheerfully. 'He didn't stop it right away, and he was snapping at everyone for the rest of the night. I can't wait till he comes in here, I have tons of questions to ask…'

'Compassion,' Hermione said, frowning, 'He was asking me about compassion before. He got annoyed because it's so illogical. And then he goes and helps that girl…'

'Oooh, you could be right,' Rita said. 'I can't wait to find out…'

Hermione nodded, frowning in thought. Could that really be why? Compassion? It didn't fit with her image of Draco; he'd been insulting to her for five years, and irritable and snappish to her over the summer. But it did make _sense_…

'I'd better run that bath now…' Hermione said distractedly, running a hand through her hair. 'Thanks for telling me, Rita.'

'Anytime.'

* * *

She remembered going to a Muggle swimming pool as a child, in the summer before Fred and George started at Hogwarts. A huge one, filled with shrieks of laughter, waterslides spiralling and twisting through the air, fountains and waterfalls and secret, hidden corners. She remembered her father, ecstatic, trying to work out how the Muggles made spouts of water squirt upward and getting hit in the face by one. They'd all laughed.

The most exciting part, even more exciting than the slides, had been the wave pool. Ginny had just graduated from her swimming lessons, and her mother grudgingly allowed her into the deep pool where hidden machinery made huge waves. Swimming expertly, she'd kept her head above the water as a huge wave lifted her up, dropped her into a valley, and lifted her again. It had been exciting because it was dangerous, because at any moment she could be engulfed by water.

There was no pool here, no chlorine smell in the air, but among the fiery reds and golds of the Gryffindor common room Ginny was reminded once again of those waves, the highs and lows and the inexorable _power_ of the water. Except that this time, she was a spectator, watching someone else struggle their way to the peak only to dip down again, fighting to keep their head above water. Harry.

Of course, it wasn't real water; he was swimming in a pool of feelings, of his misery and grief and all the other things he was feeling. And sometimes he was at the bottom of a wave, and then he was silent and pale and withdrawn, his mind wandering in some other world and coming back to reality only when forced. It was then Ginny feared for him most, feared that the water would drag him under and drown him.

Other times, of course, he was on top of the wave, and then he smiled again, and laughed, and chatted until they could almost forget that in the morning he'd be miserable again. His eyes were alive then, greener than the leaves in summer. Or, Ginny thought with a flash of amusement, as green as a fresh pickled toad. What on earth had she been _thinking_ in first year?

She watched him, talking animatedly to Ron and Hermione. They were discussing something that had happened in Transfiguration, and while she could have joined in the conversation, Ginny felt content to watch.

She watched Harry's eyes laughing, and Ron's hair glowing in the firelight, and Hermione smiling widely, happy that Harry was alright. She watched her brother laughing, and the inkstains on Hermione's hands, and the way that Harry's black-as-midnight hair always stuck out in all directions.

Was it odd that she was closer to the year above than her own year? It wasn't that she had no friends of her own age; she got on well with all of them, sat with them in class… But she had always been closest to Ron out of her brothers – as the youngest two, they'd had most in common. Hermione was intelligent and caring, and always seemed to have something interesting to say. And Harry… was Harry. He didn't need any more explanation than that: he was the Boy Who Lived; the one who'd saved her from Tom.

Even her boyfriend was from the year above. Ginny supposed it wasn't a bad thing, really – variety was a good thing, and she had friends in both years. It worked well.

'Ginny?' It was Hermione's voice. 'Were we leaving you out?'

She looked up. 'Oh, no, don't worry, I was just thinking.'

'You looked half asleep.' Ron told her. 'Tired?'

'A bit,' Ginny confessed, sitting up properly. 'What were you talking about?'

'The Transfiguration lesson,' said Harry, grinning. 'We were learning how to turn a piece of parchment into a plant, you see, and Ron managed to get the incantation completely wrong, and instead of tulips his parchment managed to turn into a Fanged Nasturtium…'

'The ones that attack people?' asked Ginny, grinning. 'Didn't one of those chew off someone's leg, a few years ago in… Wales?'

Ron nodded, looking sheepish. 'One of those.'

Ginny laughed, and Harry, his eyes glowing and alive, carried on telling her the story of their amusing battle with the Fanged Nasturtium.

* * *

'It is vital that you do _not_ allow the dragon scale to remain in the potion for more than five seconds, else the substance will become far too powerful with damaging effects to the drinker. You will know whether you're competent enough to make the most basic of NEWT level potions if your mixture turns a pale orange after removal of the scale. If you are incompetent, and it turns a deeper shade of orange, then I would seriously doubt your ability to achieve more than an A in an examination.'

Snape was lecturing the class in his usual acidic tones, the procedure for that lesson's potion already written on the blackboard. Draco had copied it down and ceased to pay much attention to Snape's warnings; he knew from experience that they were usually a more thorough repetition of what was already on the board, mixed with sarcastic comments and derisory remarks.

Granger, of course, was frantically scribbling away on a piece of parchment, her hair seeming even bushier than usual. He scowled. Maybe it was only his imagination, bit it felt as though he hadn't been able to escape from her all day. And she was continually glancing up at him with a puzzled look as though she were trying to work something out, or a tiny, almost smug little smile that made him want to hex her soundly.

It annoyed him in a strange way, as if someone had numbed a patch of skin with ice and proceeded to slide a needle into that patch, started moving the sliver of metal around. There was nothing painful associated with it, merely an annoyance.

And, of course, it wasn't logical. Hermione could smile that irritating little smile all she wanted; it would achieve nothing, and there was certainly no way in which that could have any negative effects on him. Yet it made him want to strangle her.

'The potions will require about thirty minutes to complete,' Snape was saying. 'You may begin now.'

There was a general buzz of movement as people got up from the benches and began their preparations. They weren't in pairs; Snape had firmly decreed that they were not allowed to 'rely on the intelligence or knowledge of another in NEWT level Potions', giving Hermione a sharp look: she was known for trying to help her friends when they got things wrong.

Draco set up his cauldron and started slicing crisp, blue-green eucalyptus leaves into thin strips. They were an important part of this potion, though not as important as the dragon scale, and the powerful scent quickly filled the room. It was an unusual occurrence, to have a nice-smelling ingredient in Potions; almost sweet and impossible to place, but energising, as if pure energy had been condensed to liquid form and allowed to evaporate into the cold, stony dungeon.

Draco carried on as usual, preparing his potion with the attention to detail that always got him high marks. Oh, Snape played favourites, but Draco knew he'd do just as well if the professor were completely unbiased. He could never understand why people like Longbottom found Potions so difficult – all you did was follow the instructions. Simple.

Hermione was looking at him again, pausing as she crushed her beetle shells with a considering look on her face. He didn't like it, feeling like some interesting _thing_ to be analysed and written down in books. It annoyed him again: the painless-needle way. Nothing would happen if she looked at him, Draco reminded himself. It had no relevance whatsoever.

He glared at her, and she turned back to her potion, but Draco caught her looking at him in the same way over the course of their lesson, as they prepared the ingredients, stirred the mixture, as – in accordance with Shakespeare – fires burnt and cauldrons bubbled.

His potion was a perfect shade of pale orange. So was Granger's, when he glanced her way, though Potter's was a shade too dark. Not enough to lower his mark by far, but enough to earn him a glare from Snape as he swept past. Draco smirked, a mixture of habit and smug superiority.

Draco almost wondered, idly, whether Harry had got over his godfather's death, and whether he was alright now, but he pushed those thoughts away with some alarm as soon as they occurred to him. It was just like Potter to whine over some pathetic dog-man's death, Draco told himself firmly.

He cleared away quickly, and made to leave as soon as he could, but he hadn't taken two steps into the corridor when a voice spoke.

'Draco?'

It was Hermione, standing defiantly in the doorway. She stepped over to him, letting the people behind her stream out. Perfect; now the Slytherins had seen a Mudblood talking to him. Just what he needed, though after last night he couldn't really sink any lower.

He wasn't pleased to see her. 'What do you want?' he snapped.

Harry came up behind them, puzzled. 'I'll only be a minute, Harry, you go on ahead,' Hermione told him before he could speak, then turned back to Draco as Harry, frowning, left. 'I wanted to know why you helped that Muggleborn girl last night.'

Instantly, for no understandable reason, he felt furious – that fiery emotion that became more familiar by the day. 'That is none of your business,' he hissed, then turned sharply and began to leave.

She called after him. 'Compassion. It was compassion, wasn't it?'

He walked away.

* * *

**A/N: **I don't particularly like this chapter, mainly because time constrained me so I didn't get to write all of it that I wanted to. There was meant to be another scene… ah well. Next chapter (a week after next, remember) should hopefully be better.

Now, I'm going to go and gibber over the fact that I only know about three of my Latin poems. Reviews calm my nerves, by reminding me that if I fail all my exams, I can always make a living writing ridiculous romance stories for Mils and Boon (they'll publish anything if someone shags in it). But I'd really rather not fail my exams. Reviews keep me calm, calmness leads to better revision, better revision leads to better passing-of-exams. So review. Please?


	20. Forboding

**Chapter 19: Forboding**

**Disclaimer:** Mmm? Mmmmmm… MmMmm. (Translation, for my father and all the other males out there who insist they can't understand when women speak in mmm-language: 'Mine? Hmmm…. Nope.'

**Thanks for 567 reviews goes to: **Arafel2, storm079, citcat299, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole, willowfairy, draconas, Madam Midnight, kami, heavengurl899 (x2), JoeBob1379, KrystyWroth, Sam8, RedWitch1, awkward, Crimson Coloured Cloaked Figure, Lyra Silvertongue2, tennisplaya278, relena333, mesmer, Go10, liar, orliNkiera, Princess of Light, Plaidly Lush, Saotoshi (x2), PhAnToM-ChiK, Kiyoko, MsLessa, starr talenyn, anni0932, PinkTribeChick, gummy bear, HiddenShadows(x2)

**A/N:** And I'm back!

With three exams taken. Latin translation, French oral, and Latin Literature, in that order. The translation was reassuringly easy, I think I did okay in my oral, but the literature was a bit evil – mainly because I didn't have long enough. Today's quote is actually taken from one of the poems I studied, and indeed I actually discussed the quote _twice_ in my exam (it fitted as part of an answer to two different questions).

Next week I only have English Literature, so I should – if all things go to plan – update as usual next week. Especially since I'm now on study leave, which rocks.

May I add that my muses, as usual, are evil. They keep giving me too many ideas for one-shots and shorts… drives me mad. Mad, I tell you! Even going to Stratford and watching Macbeth gave me massive inspirations… (the production, by the way, was awesome. Romeo and Juliet was also good, but Macbeth was better.) Will just sit tight and wait for summer to come and bring me lots of writing time.

On another note, I'd like to ask one reviewer (liar): how on earth did you know I'm from Greater Manchester? (I'd also like to assure you that I didn't say my favourite sport was football. Wasn't asked about it, actually. I got the house-family-local area kind of questions.)

Still having some difficulties with my usual divider symbol, so It's going to be horizontal lines from now on. Damned QuickEdit...

That said, onto the belated chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_nesciaque humanis precibus manuscere corda (And hearts that do not know how to be moved by human prayers)_

**_Vergil, "Orpheus and Eurydice"_**

* * *

'Signs – and you appreciate, my Lord, that at this stage the signs are subtle, mostly in the hearts and minds of the people – indicate that our propaganda is having an effect. The _Daily Prophet _is widely read, and though only a few reporters are allied with our cause, their comments are beginning to soak into people's minds, biasing their opinions. The _Miggs_ comic especially…'

'Nott,' the Dark Lord interrupted in a voice like the first frosts of winter, 'do you have anything new to share, or are you merely going to repeat everything you have told us for the past month?'

The black-robed Death Eater bowed his head. 'I'm sorry, my Lord. Everything is proceeding according to plan… our propaganda is slowly increasing in frequency and bluntness, and we have five new recruits. Mainly in magazines, three of them work for _Witch Weekly_…'

Voldemort inclined his head in what passed for a nod. 'Recruit more people in the _Daily Prophet_,' he ordered. 'That newspaper is read by almost all of our kind. From now on, I want a minimum of one piece of propaganda per issue. Am I understood?'

'Yes, my Lord,' Nott muttered, stepping back into the circle with a glance towards his fellow Death Eaters.

The Death Eater meeting ended then, everything having been discussed, and the few weaker Death Eaters in the outer circles Disapparated quickly, relieved that no one had been tortured for failing Voldemort's plans, or asked to kill a Muggle to prove their loyalty, their fanaticism. Not that they would have flinched at the torture, or hesitated for a moment if asked to murder. That was the price they paid to share a little of Voldemort's power.

The others began Disapparating; Voldemort turned to where Lucius stood, his Death Eater's hood drawn up to hide his face. 'Walk with me,' said the Dark Lord impassively, a command rather than a request. Lucius obeyed immediately.

They left the small clearing in the wood where their meetings were held in silence, coming out by the old manor that Voldemort used as his centre of operations. No one knew of this place: it was Unplottable, warded with the strongest of spells against intruders, and every mention of the place in the past erased completely from both Ministry and Muggle records.

'What news of your son, Lucius?' Voldemort asked impassively, as soon as they reached the lifeless stone of the building and began to walk around it. Lucius paused a moment before replying.

'I am certain that he has become human,' he said. 'It is the only logical conclusion to draw, although I do not yet know how or why. I have written to him and told him to return, yet he has not yet replied. I do not expect that he shall.'

'We cannot afford to lose a half-Fallen.' Voldemort said. 'You know full well that he has far greater talent with the Dark Arts than any normal human. I have you in my service, with your talents at my disposal…'

'And your own.' Lucius interjected.

'Indeed. Yet such power is necessary, in as great a quantity as possible, if we are to win in battle. We must not lose sight of the fact that my _loyal_ Death Eaters are in the minority compared to the number of able wizards…'

'Not for long. Our propaganda campaign will increase those numbers,' Lucius paused. 'Still, I agree that my son is a valuable asset that we should attempt to retain…'

They remained in silence for a moment. Then Voldemort spoke. 'Your Manor holds the greatest collection of writings on this topic. What do you believe will happen?'

'The writings are vague. My son's case is rare, as you know. Some sources state that the Fallen half, being stronger than the human and more used to control, may eventually rise up and take control again. Others describe the turned half-Fallen living out the rest of their lives as normal humans. I have written to the sons and daughters of Death Eaters currently attending Hogwarts, asking them to report on anything unusual as regards my son. Hopefully we shall soon know.'

'Inform me as soon as you hear anything of interest,' Voldemort commanded. 'I assume that it is still possible to split the Fallen and human sides of your son into two separate brings?'

Lucius nodded. 'With the same effects. Death after approximately an hour of separation.'

'If he shows no signs of turning back, it may be beneficial to do so.' Voldemort said without emotion. 'Considering that in that hour's space he will have the full power of a Fallen, far more than he has currently.'

'He would be able to kill a large number of Mudbloods and Muggles,' Lucius noted. 'As many as a thousand have been recorded in earlier such separations. With the modern population both larger and packed into cities, I predict that number may be much higher.'

'We shall see how the situation unfolds,' Voldemort said firmly. 'You may leave now, Lucius.'

With a brief nod, Lucius Disapparated.

* * *

He felt an intrinsic sense of _wrongness_ as he sat near the back of the Slytherin common room, a sense of not fitting; like two colours that clashed and made the eyes sore, and he was one colour and everything around him was the other. It was a jarring feeling like nails being dragged across a chalkboard, but what annoyed him most of all was the fact that he felt that way at all. He _was_ a Slytherin, had always been one. Logic and cunning and calculation, as though life were a massive game of chess: these had always been his mainstays.

And yet they weren't there anymore, were they? He felt for logic, the foundation of what he _was_, and it wasn't there. Or it was, but cracked and crumbled and falling apart, weathered and eroded by senseless emotions.

Draco's grey eyes scanned the common room, frowning. None of the Slytherins allowed emotion to get in their way. None of them had felt the need to help Ellen, to stop the taunts and bullying. None of them had felt compassion, or if they had, they'd learned to ignore it. How? How did they ignore that feeling, the knowledge that someone else was in pain, the need to stop that happening?

He didn't know. But he did know that it was possible to ignore it, or not to feel it. He himself wasn't able to, but he knew it was possible. All that remained was to find out how, exactly, one went about it.

Unobserved, he stood silently and crossed to the exit, stepping out into the dim corridors, and headed towards the library.

* * *

Hermione, seeking to escape the clamour and chaos of the common room, had slipped away for an hour, as she usually did, to work for a while in the peaceful silence of the library. She liked it here, surrounded by towering shelves filled with ancient books, breathing air made dense with silence and parchment.

Ron had once complained that it was 'like a grave in here', but Hermione never found it so. Just old. Ands full of knowledge, spells and potions, history and theories, charms and Dark magic pinned carefully to pages like delicate butterflies, or dust in one of the cobwebs that softened the room's corners. That was another reason Ron disliked the library – spiders.

Smiling, she lovingly turned a page in the fat book of Arithmancy formulae, skimming down the page to find the information she needed, and was quite taken by surprise when the all-too-familiar blonde Slytherin slid into the seat opposite her with an irritated look.

'Why on earth are you working right at the back of the library where it's nearly _impossible_ to find you? I've been looking for ten minutes,' he demanded, looking rather petulant. He was acting, Hermione realised, and of course he was good at it– his shoulder slouched just _so_, one eyebrow raised like _that_ – but he seemingly hadn't learnt to hide what he really felt as well. Looking closer, he appeared flustered, perhaps a little nervous, and she knew he must have come to ask her something.

The question was: _what? _Their last conversation had ended in him storming off, exasperated at being unable to find a logical answer, and he'd certainly seemed unwilling to speak to her after Potions. What had changed his mind?

Stalling for a moment, she wrote down the end of her Arithmancy formula and replied nonchalantly, 'I like it here. It's more… private.'

'Secluded. Hidden. Impossible to find,' Draco suggested, carrying on his act of annoyance. It was well done, Hermione thought: if she hadn't known of his emotional problems and specifically looked for what he really felt, she probably wouldn't have noticed.

'Those too,' she agreed, closing her book. She could either wait for Draco to ask what he wanted, or go straight to the point and ask him; she decided on the latter. 'Did you want something?'

He paused for a moment, examining a knot in the wooden table, and Hermione suddenly felt very clearly just how strange this must be for him, how even everyday things such as asking a question or talking to someone were alien and distorted to his mind.

'Yes,' he said eventually, looking up. 'You heard of… what happened with Ellen?'

'The Muggleborn girl? Yes,' she said, nodding and trying to guess what question he was going to ask her. Something about compassion, how to ignore it, perhaps, or…

'Why didn't the other Slytherins need to help her?'

That one surprised her slightly; she frowned. 'What? You mean… why didn't they feel compassion?'

He nodded shortly, absent-mindedly picking up her quill and toying with it. 'Or why they didn't act on it if they felt it.'

Hermione frowned and leant back in her chair, wondering what the best answer was, wondering how to explain it to him. 'Well… For a start, not all people feel the same things,' she began. 'Everyone feels the different ways in the same situation…'

'Why?'

She shrugged. 'I don't know… its psychology. Your environment, the way you've been brought up, the things you've been taught - even genes, partially. So… would I be right in thinking that many of the Slytherins were brought up to hate Muggleborns?'

A sudden thought struck her. 'One minute, weren't _you_ brought up to hate Muggleborns too? Well… not hate, because… But to think we're, I don't know, evil or dirty or…'

Draco frowned suddenly, as though he'd just realised something that should have been obvious. 'No,' he said softly. 'Fallens… our instinct is to do wrong. To cause pain and harm, and evil. So I was taught that hating Mud… Muggleborns was _wrong_.'

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise; she hadn't expected that. 'So is that part of why you helped Ellen?' she asked. 'Because you knew it was…'

'I don't _know_,' he protested vehemently, almost angrily. Frowning, he leant forward so his arm was flat on the table, bent to make a pillow, and rested his head in the crux of his elbow. He brought his left hand - which still held her favourite midnight-black quill - up to his cheek, and sighed. He looked oddly childlike, Hermione thought, or perhaps the right word was vulnerable. His pale-grey eyes were dark with confusion and difficulty and the fear of that which is new and unusual and terrifying.

She half-smiled at him. 'So the others, those of them that were taught to hate Muggleborns, they wouldn't have felt compassion. And the others… maybe they're used to it, or they just ignore it.'

'So it is possible to ignore them,' he said distantly, then shook his head, sitting up straight. 'I don't want to talk about this any more,' he declared, dropping her quill onto the table. 'Talk to me about something else.'

* * *

Some way away from the library – ten minutes walk; five if you knew a shortcut and didn't run into Peeves – the rest of the Gryffindors were making the most of their Friday night, and there wasn't a single homework essay, textbook or page of notes to be seen in the whole of the common room. One of the fourth-years had crept down to the kitchens and come back with an armful of Butterbeer; consequently, one corner of the room was getting rather giggly.

Ginny, being a fifth-year and not being particularly close to anyone in the year below (who she'd once described to Hermione as, 'a load of snobbish toads') was not in the Butterbeer-drinking group, but was still managing to indulge herself in quite frequent bouts of laughter. The reason for this was a book she'd borrowed from a friend in Hufflepuff, _One Hundred And One Quick And Easy Hair Charms_.

'Oooh, here's a good one!' she grinned, her eyes glowing with the same sheer, evil delight that Fred and George displayed when watching someone eat a Canary Cream. She waved her wand with an elegant flick of the wrist. '_Crispa!_'

Ron's hair immediately sprang into tight curls, and he gave a yell of horror, clapping a hand to his head to try to see what she'd done. 'Ginny!'

Harry grinned in amusement. 'I think it suits you,' he teased. 'The curly-haired Weasley.'

'_Curls_? Ginny, how _could_ you…' Ron moaned, trying desperately to tug his rebellious hair straight. 'Argh. Stop laughing, Harry, you only got hit with that blue eye-stuff, you got off lightly…'

'Eyeshadow? Yeah, I guess I did, it came straight off…'

'And ruined my fun,' Ginny complained with a mock pout. 'At least Dean didn't get off so easily…

Dean had been the unfortunate recipient of a semi-permanent lipstick charm, and was currently in the bathrooms trying to turn his lips from crimson back to their normal colour.

Ron, however, was drawing some definite giggles from the Butterbeer-drinking fourth-years, and looked rather horrified at the idea of curly hair. 'Please tell me this charm comes off…' he begged, looking desperate.

'Don't worry, I wouldn't do something _permanent_. Unless you really annoyed me,' she added with a cheeky grin.

'Will you undo it now?' he pleaded. 'Come on, you've had your fun, and people are starting to notice.'

'Well…' Ginny considered.

'Please?'

'Alright, alright. _Naturalis Crinis._' She muttered, and Ron's hair, to his great relief, returned to normal. Ginny settled back in her chair. 'I'll just imagine Dean with his beautiful crimson lipstick,' she grinned.

Ron was still rather irritable. 'I think, as a Prefect, I should confiscate that book.' He threatened.

'And as a Prefect, I should confiscate it right back,' she said, sticking her tongue out at him and eliciting a snort from Harry. 'Besides, it's only a bit of harmless fun. Less harmful than Fred and George's stuff, and you never stopped them using any of those…'

'Well they never turned my hair curly,' Ron pointed out, still running a hand absently through his hair. 'You'd better not…'

They never found out what Ginny had better not do, because Dean chose that moment to throw himself into the seat beside Ginny, a distinctly disgruntled look on his face. His lips were still faintly crimson.

'I still can't get this bloody spell off,' he spat, glaring darkly at Ginny. 'Take it off. Now.'

She frowned at him. 'Don't be so prickly, it's only a bit of fun…'

'Take it off!'

He looked distinctly upset; Ginny sighed and muttered the counter spell. 'There. You're back to normal. Are you happy?'

'No.' He slouched down in the seat. 'I'm still mad at you for doing it in the first place…'

Sighing, she twisted round on the sofa, sitting cross-legged on the plush cushions with her back to the rest of the room so she could see him better. 'It was only a joke,' she said softly. 'Come on, don't tell me you can't see the funny side.'

She tried to touch his shoulder consolingly, but he shrugged her off, and she bit back an irritated remark and said, in the voice she used to get her brothers wrapped round her little finger, 'Dean! It's not like it was some huge thing you'll never be able to get rid of. It's gone now. If you were that mad about it, you could have asked me to take it off instead of running off like that…'

He remained stubbornly silent, not looking at her. Harry chimed in. 'She turned Ron's hair curly,' he offered, pointing out that Dean wasn't the only victim of Ginny's wand. 'It looked ridiculous.'

'And the fourth years were laughing at me,' Ron muttered.

When Dean still didn't speak, Ginny bravely refrained from giving an exasperated sigh, then leant in and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips, which caused Ron to splutter.

'Ginny!' he protested, the tips of his ears going bright red. 'You… Dean… eurgh,' he shook his head violently as if trying to shake the image out through his ears.

Dean, meanwhile, seemed pleasantly surprised. 'What was that for?'

'Never heard the phrase, 'kiss it better'?' asked Ginny, a wide grin on her face. 'Do you forgive me now?'

'Alright, I suppose so,' Dean agreed with a long-suffering sigh, and Ginny, still beaming, swivelled round to sit properly again.

There could have been an awkward moment, but Ginny skilfully brought up a new topic of conversation. 'Do you know how many people have signed up for the DA yet, Harry?' she asked.

'Er… no, I'm not sure. There's lots from Gryffindor…'

'Hermione said about forty so far, and twenty more in the first three years.' Ron put in. There was a short silence.

'That many?' Dean asked, amazed. 'Wow. How are you going to teach us all?'

Harry shrugged. 'Same way I did last year, I guess. Sixty people…'

'More, probably, not everyone's signed up yet,' Ginny pointed out. 'Merlin. Two DA clubs, Quidditch practice, homework… it's going to be a busy year.'

'You'd better make sure you have time for me,' Dean told her with a mock-serious expression.

She pretended to think. 'Well, I can fit you in at one o'clock on Saturdays and nine o'clock Wednesday evenings…'

He poked her in the ribs, and she laughed, the good humour restored once again. The conversation continued well into the evening, until twilight turned to night and the fires burnt low.

* * *

Midnight held the Slytherin dormitories firmly in the grip of darkness: the waning moon shrouded in a cloak of ominous clouds, the stars stifled. Buried beneath heavy blankets, hidden away behind bed hangings as thick and ominous as the deepest shadow of Tartarus, Draco slept.

And within his unguarded, slumbering mind, he felt the light brush of feathers against the back of his skull. For an instant, a pair of grey eyes glanced towards him emotionlessly, and a hand as cold as glass seemed to close on his, to pull him forward…

Draco frowned and shifted in his sleep. In the morning, he would not remember.

* * *

**A/N: **Draco's future is definitely not looking very good, is it?

And now I shall go and write out plots I want to work on over summer and write some other things and revise Literature and all the other things I need to do.

Review, or I'll stab you with my trusty fondue fork. Blunt enough for you?


	21. Hagalaz

**Chapter 20: Hagalaz**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. Harry Potter, I do not own. I do own Harry Potter, not. Harry, I do not own, Potter. Potter own not Harry do I. Not do Potter own I Harry.

**Thanks for 615 reviews goes to: **LeatherLibraries(x2), Haystack8190, samhaincat, willowfairy, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole, Go10, jules37, Gizelle, draconas, DeLany, KrystyWroth, gummy bear(x2), kessi1011, Rhiannon Paige, Madam Midnight, Sam8, liar, PhAnToM-ChiK, fantasymei-aqua, RedWitch1, Arafel2, relena333, RandomOddity, tennisplaya278, citcat299, Storm079, Sa, jaderabbit, toothpicks, KingKinkyCadillacWhore, mesmer, Saraiyu, Plaidly Lush, heavengurl899, seth blade, Kami, Carmione (x2), amsev, PinkTribeChick, Miss Law, Alyssium (x3), btvsgoddess, Princess of Light, MsLessa, ToOtHpIcK.

**A/N:** A number of very important announcements…

First of all, and most exciting: **_I'M AN AUNTIE!_** As of 10:30 pm, Thursday 27th May, 2004. Everyone celebrate the arrival of my new niece, Bethan – chocolate and champagne in copious quantities!

Second of all, my exams have gone fine – English Literature was this morning, in which I rambled about Atticus being a good parent and how poets presented love in their poems. Made most of the poetry analysis up on the spot, which is apparently how you're meant to do it.

Thirdly, some bad news. Due to the arrival of Bethan and subsequent visits to see her (my sister lives a good few hours' drive away), coupled with the fact that after next week my exams start getting really _vicious_ in number, Fallen is on hold for the next three weeks. It was difficult enough to get this chapter done as it is!

Fourthly, some good news: Over the past month or so, in my rather lacking spare time between Fallen, school, revision and other things, I've been working on a short fic in three parts. This only needs one or two more scenes to finish it, which should be just about manageable (especially as they're the kind of scenes that make you want to write them) and so, over the next three weeks, I'll be putting this fic up on Fridays in place of Fallen. It's called Cursed; it's _sort of_ D/Hr, and its very evil. People on my Fallen update list will receive update notices for Cursed.

Fifthly, massive thanks to the heroine of this chapter, Syco, who stepped in when all my usual betae _mysteriously vanished_ the evening of the update when I desperately needed someone to check the chapter over. For services rendered in a great time of need, I award her an Order of Merlin and a cameo somewhere later on.

Sixthly, I'm out of things to announce. Go read. Enjoy!

* * *

_The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials. _

**_Chinese Proverb_**

* * *

'Harry?'

The weekend had passed in a blur of homework, chess games with Ron and conversation around the common room fireplace, and Monday morning had come round once more to find the seventh-years leaning against the walls outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, waiting for Professor Delaney to arrive.

'Harry? Did you hear what I just said?'

He was startled out of his thoughts by Hermione's voice. 'Er…' he said, looking upwards and blinking. 'Sorry, Hermione…'

She wasn't angry, just gave him a sad little smile that was somehow worse than her annoyance, and he vowed for what felt like the hundredth time to be more attentive, to stop letting his thoughts drift off into memories of the past and worries of the future. It just felt very difficult to stay in the present…

'I said that I was going to arrange a preliminary meeting of the DA,' she repeated. 'Not a teaching lesson as such, more administration. Seeing how many people there'll be, telling people what kinds of things you'll be teaching, perhaps a review of what we did last year… is tomorrow alright for you?'

Harry shrugged. 'It's fine. I could do tonight, if that'd be better…'

Hermione shook her head. 'Too soon, I'd never get the word out in time. Besides, I'm busy tonight… tomorrow's better.'

Harry nodded, and Ron, standing on the other side of Hermione, frowned. 'You're busy tonight? Doing what?'

'Meeting a friend to study,' she said lightly, looking not at him but down the corridor, and smiling when she saw the professor walking briskly towards them.

'Good morning, class,' he beamed, opening the door to the classroom, and the students began to trickle in slowly with the weight of another week's classes weighing on them. Harry was one of the last to enter, and took his place next to Ron quietly, waiting for Delaney to begin.

'Alright, today we're going to be revising and practicing some of the basic defensive spells. Does everyone remember the incantation for the basic shield charm? Yes?'

'_Protego_,' said Hermione with a neat smile.

'Very good, Miss Granger. The Shield Charm is most useful…'

Harry began to drift off again. He knew all of this anyway; he remembered teaching that exact spell in the DA last year. And while he was peripherally aware of Hermione hissing excitedly to Ron that, 'This will be great for the DA!' he somehow couldn't keep his concentration on the present.

It wasn't just the abrupt loss of Sirius that was hurting him; it was the fact that he knew he should have been more careful, not put himself in danger, and if he hadn't gone running off like an idiot Sirius would still be alive. That hurt too, a painful shard of guilt to match the hole where Sirius had been torn away.

He sighed a little, trying to concentrate on Professor Delaney. After all, he needed to know everything he could about how to defend himself, how to fight. It still hung over him. The Prophecy. _And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_.

That was the other thing that weighed on him lately, turned up in his dreams at night. It didn't have the pain of seeing Sirius fall backwards through the veil again and again, or the chilling horror of seeing his friends falling to the ground, injured or screaming or dead, in imaginary battles that his subconscious would not stop dwelling on. It was grey and heavy and cold like a lump of stone, listening to Professor Trelawney prophesising that he would murder or be murdered.

It struck him with sudden bitter irony that all those times in the past two years when she'd predicted his death, she may have been right.

It was a frightening idea, killing Voldemort, and seemed somehow impossible. Voldemort wasn't someone who could be killed. He was someone to be escaped from, someone to keep the Philosopher's Stone safe from, someone to rescue Ginny from, deep in the bowels of the Chamber of Secrets. He was someone to duel with and to fight against, dodging around tombstones or in the Department of Mysteries, but never someone to _attack_, to _kill_.

Harry felt very distant from the rest of his classmates in that moment. To most of them this was all academics and exams and the chance to have some fun in lessons when they did some practice duels, and to Harry it was life and death.

To Ron and Hermione, and some of the others who'd been in the DA, it could turn out to be life-and-death knowledge, if it came to open war and battles and magical armies. But at this very moment they would only be thinking about the DA and schoolwork and perhaps small fights, little skirmishes: nothing on the scale that Harry knew he'd have to face one day: a fight to the death with Voldemort.

It made him feel very, very alone, and he longed for Sirius even more, for a warm smile and some words of advice, of comfort, reassurance that he could and would face the destiny that had been prophesised.

Perhaps he should tell Ron, tell Hermione, but as he glanced at his friend's faces he knew he couldn't. He knew they cared about him, and telling them would put this weight on their shoulders too, and he didn't want that. He wanted them to be as happy as they could be, with Voldemort's return and propaganda circulating. He wouldn't weigh them down any further, not until he had to.

Ron nudged him sharply in the ribs, causing Harry to jump, and he looked upwards to see Professor Delaney looking at him with a questioning look.

'Did you hear my question?' he asked, with a raised eyebrow that showed that he knew Harry hadn't. Grimly, Harry wondered if he was going to lose house points.

'Sorry, Professor, I didn't…'

Delaney just gave him a good-natured smile, and repeated himself. 'Do you know the incantation for the Blasting Curse?'

'_Discutio_,' Harry replied, and attempted to keep his attention on the lesson from then on.

* * *

It had come as quite a surprise to Hermione when, at the end of their conversation, Draco had casually asked if she'd be in the library again on Monday evening. She, realising that he wanted to talk to her again, had said that she probably would be.

He was already there when he arrived, working calmly on an essay, a fat book open in front of him and a pale piece of parchment half-full of writing. She paused a moment before approaching him, watching minute frowns and small smiles crossing his face. She didn't know his expressions as well as she did Harry's or Ron's, but she'd discovered two things about them: one, that he could imitate any emotion he wished to show perfectly, and two, that he was almost unable to hide any of his real feelings. Which made sense, in a way. If he'd never felt them before, he'd never learnt to hide them, and when he wasn't specifically trying to mimic an emotion his face betrayed him. Hermione wondered how long it would take him to learn how to hide that, to make his face illegible.

'Were you planning on standing there all day?'

She started as the blond Slytherin looked over his shoulder at her, raising an eyebrow, but pulled herself together quickly.

'No, only for a minute,' Hermione replied, knowing that she couldn't come up with an excuse and the truth was as good a remark as any, and crossed to the table where he sat. 'What subject's the essay for?'

'Runes,' he explained. 'Revision, we're going into the meanings of various runes in greater detail this term.'

She sat down and took a glance at his essay, curious. 'A one-and-a-half foot essay on the meaning of any rune from the Elder Futhark,' she read. 'Which one did you choose… oh, _hagalaz_.'

Glancing over his first paragraph, she read, 'Hagalaz begins the second Aett with the theme of drastic change, destruction and personal ordeals.' It wasn't difficult to see why he'd selected that rune in particular. _Drastic change_.

And you couldn't get much more drastic than what had happened to him. 'Do you want to finish that now? I've got some Defence homework I could get started on…'

He shook his head. 'It's not due for a while,' he said, and rolled the parchment up swiftly, beginning to put his things back into his bag.

Hermione cast around for a conversation topic. 'Do you like Runes?' she asked eventually, knowing that it was a silly question – he had to like it, else he wouldn't have taken it…

'I don't know.'

His answer surprised her for a moment, then confused her, until she remembered, feeling rather stupid, that he'd only just begun to feel emotions such as liking. He probably didn't even know how it felt to like something…

He carried on. 'I think I may like it. Runes… interest me, or they appear to. The idea of having a language where the letters mean something more than just a sound.'

She nodded, smiling. 'It is interesting. It's just a shame I couldn't take more than five NEWTs…'

'You could probably manage six, if you didn't have any free periods…' Draco said thoughtfully, but Hermione shook her head.

'I tried doing more subjects than we're supposed to in third year,' she said. 'I just got completely worn out…'

'Surprising, I'd have thought you'd have loved it,' he said, then frowned. 'But how did you do extra lessons? We didn't have any free periods…'

Drat.

She couldn't tell him about the Time Turner, and quickly evaded. 'It was… er… rather a complicated system,' she invented, hoping it didn't sound too much like she was avoiding his question. 'It'd take forever to explain…'

He gave her a rather sharp look, then shrugged elegantly, allowing the subject to drop. 'Why did you get worn out?'

'I barely had any free time,' she explained. 'And I was up really late every night doing homework. Why did you ask?' she added suddenly, realising that it was a slightly odd question – everyone got worn out from working too hard. 'Did you think I spend all my time doing homework?'

'I'd never really considered what you did in your spare time,' he said simply. 'And I suppose I… forgot that humans need breaks from working…'

The way he spoke, talking about _humans_ as though he wasn't one - or at least partly one - himself, made Hermione shiver as though someone had just run an ice-cold finger along her spine. 'You _are _human,' she said firmly.

'Only for a month,' he pointed out; her eyes met his in that moment, and she couldn't identify the feeling in them though she could see its existence clearly. It was as colourless as his eyes, and _cold_ – not naturally so, in the way that ice or metal is cold, but in the way that something living is cold when it's been left outside in the heart of winter for too long and the snows have shrouded it.

Her fingernails bit her palm, and she looked sharply down at the table, unaccountably spooked. Hermione tried to force the conversation back on topic.

'Don't Fallen need breaks from work?' she asked, surprised by her tone of voice; it was strangely harsh and she didn't quite know why.

'No,' was his answer, along with a sigh, 'just sleep. And food, of course. Rest and recreation is… an emotional need.'

She wasn't sure whether the brain actually required rest other than sleep – were Fallen _brains_ significantly different to human ones, as _well_ as their personalities? – but didn't ask; she wanted to get off the topic. Fortunately, while she was searching for a topic, Draco came up with one.

'So what _do_ you do in your spare time? You can't spend all of it planning how to defeat Voldemort.'

She shrugged, though grateful for the subject change. 'Talk to my friends, read books… plan for the DA, which is probably part of defeating Voldemort.' There was a short silence as both remembered how Draco had proved almost disastrous to the DA last year, but then again, that had been the Fallen-minded Draco, and this was the human one.

Hermione broke the silence, trying to add a note of humour. 'What do the Slytherins do? Torture animals, hold Bacchic orgies – or is there a Young Death Eater's club?'

He smiled, which made her feel better. 'Talk to our friends, read books… no orgies, sadly, and animal torture is too messy. We do occasionally plan world domination…'

He grinned at her, and she smiled back, and they went on to discuss more trivial things.

* * *

The Room of Requirement was fuller than he'd ever seen it.

It seemed like half of Hogwarts was here, gathered around in little groups by house and age, chattering to each other casually while keeping their eyes on him, on Harry Potter. He was meant to teach _this_ many? Last time had been alright, when it was mainly people he knew or had at least heard of, and a manageable number. There was twice that number now, and most of the newcomers he didn't know at all.

'Do you think that'll be everyone?' Ron asked from his left. 'There's loads of them…'

'Quite a lot are in the first three years,' Hermione remarked, 'they won't all be in one class… and it should be everyone.' Pulling her wand from her pocket, she pointed it at her throat and muttered, '_Sonorus!_'

The room quietened quickly at the sound of her magically amplified voice. 'Could I have your attention… Thank you. Welcome to the meeting, and thanks for coming. The first thing we need to do is get a list of everyone who's intending to join, and what times they can come to meetings. I've prepared some lists,' she said, holding up some rolls of parchment with tables drawn on them, 'so if you'd pass them around, write your name on the left, and tick the boxes of the times you can come…'

The noise level rose again as Hermione passed the parchment to the nearest people, who drew out quills and ink and set about writing in their details. With a whispered, 'Quietus,' Hermione's voice was back to normal, and she turned back to her friends with a smile.

'That shouldn't take too long,' she said. 'Harry? Are you going to be ready to talk to them?'

He nodded. The prospect of so many people was daunting, but it felt natural, and he could already imagine the kinds of things he wanted to teach, how he'd explain things to everyone…

'There's tons of Ravenclaws,' Ron was saying beside him, 'as many as there are Gryffindors, I think. And plenty of Hufflepuffs too…'

'Some Slytherins.' Harry finished, and Ron frowned.

'I didn't think any would come…'

Hermione, who was busily watching the progression of the signing-up parchments around the room, remarked, 'There's some over there… and there, too.'

There were indeed two small groups of Slytherins, and Harry spotted another group in a corner; two who looked like first or second years, a slender girl with dishwater-blonde hair and a darker-haired girl with a firm tilt to her lips that seemed at once amused and disapproving.

As he watched, a Hufflepuff handed them the parchment, which the blonde girl took with a smile and a thank-you.

Ron distracted him again. 'You don't think the Slytherins are here to spy on us, do you?'

'Give them a chance, Ron…' Hermione said distractedly, paying more attention to the circling parchments than to the red-haired Weasley. 'That girl, over there… the blonde one sitting next to the brunette, just passed the parchment on. Isn't she the Muggleborn? Ellen Meyers, I think…'

Ron nodded. 'Yeah, that's her. Hey, do the Slytherins know who's come? They won't be best pleased to see her here…'

'They don't like her anyway. She can't really do much to make them hate her more…'

Harry glanced sideways, to where his friend was watching the Slytherin with a frown. '_Just_ because of her blood?'

Hermione gave a curt nod and seemed to be deliberating whether to tell them something. Finally, she said, 'A few nights ago some of them attacked her in the Slytherin common room. Full view of everyone in there…'

'What?' Ron seemed outraged; Harry could find nothing more than an cold dread inside him, that hung heavy and leaden over his heart. Unconsciously, he'd expected as much. 'But… and they just sat and let it happen?' Ron asked.

Hermione paused, then replied very carefully, 'Malfoy stopped them.'

Ron was speechless.

'Draco Malfoy? Of the amazing-bouncing-ferret incident?' Harry asked, and Hermione nodded. Harry hadn't expected that, but it cheered him rather. 'Well, if he can change, so can anyone…'

Hermione nodded, then frowned, seeming very distant for a moment. 'Yeah,' she said. 'Anyone.'

* * *

**A/N: **The Blasting Curse was mentioned on one of the Famous Witches and Wizards cards that you can get (though I found it on the HP Lexicon). I invented the incantation, however: 'Discutio' means 'I blast'.

While it's not Latin, I should note that Hagalaz is a real rune in the Elder Futhark 'alphabet'. The word 'Aett' which is mentioned at the beginning of Draco's essay refers to the families, or groups, which the Elder Futhark is divided into. I've been doing research!

And that, I think, is that. No more for three weeks! It's going to be very odd not writing it constantly… but don't worry, you'll have Cursed starting next Friday to keep you going!

Now, review, or my baby niece will cry. You don't want the baby to cry, do you? Think of the poor baby…


	22. Trust and Deception

**Chapter 21: Trust and Deception**

**Disclaimer:** I own ice cream. I own almost a full tub of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food ice cream, and anyone who hasn't eaten that is really missing out. I don't own Harry Potter, but ice cream is a good second best.

**Thanks for 668 reviews goes to: **Alyssium (x2), Haystack8190, citcat299, JoeBob1379, Carmione, Go10, x Fallen x Serpent x, Storm079, gummybear, relena333, Rebecca15, Laterose, Sam8, mesmer, Princess of Light, kessi1011, Saraiyu, tennisplaya278, willowfairy, Arafel2, ToOtHpIcK, PINSXandXSPIKES, HG DM fan (x2), Plaidly Lush, DeLaney, DulceSoulSeeker (x2), Luna Gypsy, jules37, KrystyWroth, Lady Russell Holmes (x7), Lady Paine, Dark Raven, thekidwonderladymistress, draconas, Cho Chang-Emotional Dark Hole, Saotoshi (x2), LoniGirl, Paganicewand, Madam Midnight, PinkTribeChick, brettley, awkward, dixiechic581, liar.

**A/N:** I'm back!

Exams are finally over, the evil cruel sadistic things, and all I need do now is wait till the results come out and then cower beneath my blanket and refuse to go collect them for fear of getting the worst marks ever recorded. Which I won't, touch wood, but everyone's still terrified of it anyway.

Apologies for uploading this a day late, but it was a rather important sleepover, being the last one we'll have before two of my friends leave my school… To make up to you for the lateness, I'll teach you this really fun-yet-messy thing I learned at the sleepover. You will need one cup of hot chocolate and a Penguin bar or similar biscuit (a biscuit coated in chocolate). Bite off diagonally opposite corners of the Penguin, dip one corner in the hot chocolate and the other in your mouth and suck the hot chocolate up through the Penguin like a straw. As soon as you get a mouthful of hot chocolate, tae the Penguin and eat it very quickly before it disintegrates. Tastes gorgeous.

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed Cursed and He Was Brave Enough, which are both in my profile should you wish to read them. And now, onto the chapter – enjoy!

* * *

_Adversity does teach who your real friends are._

**_Lois McMaster Bujold, A Civil Campaign, 1999_**

* * *

Draco couldn't say that breakfast had been his favourite time of the day before his mind had switched from Fallen to human, because to have a favourite time of day you needed emotions, and Fallens has none. But breakfast, surrounded by his allies and minions in the Great Hall, had always been a productive time. He had been able to speak with the other Slytherins and plan small acts of evil – the kind that would go unnoticed, or be taken for normal schoolboy actions, so that he wouldn't draw undue attention.

Now, with his mind human and his house against him, breakfast was a very different affair. He ate at the far end of the table, his choice of seat carefully balanced; it had to be far enough away from the proper Slytherins, yet not too close to the neutral group. A few places to his right, Ellen was sitting, chatting to the neutrals. She kept glancing at him with a small frown on her face as if trying to figure him out, to assess his good and bad qualities.

Draco disliked this casual assessment – it felt like the mental equivalent of a rough file being scraped over the tips of his teeth and fingernails. But when he turned his head and looked the other way, he encountered Blaise Zabini, who kept looking towards him with a little frown on her face whenever Pansy wasn't engaging her in conversation.

Unaccountably annoyed, Draco turned his mind to the first lesson of the day, Transfiguration. The previous Monday, they'd been doing advanced magic, combining more than one spell in order to produce an otherwise impossible effect. Transfiguration had very subtle rules, but they were always logical, and if there was one thing Draco felt at home with, it was logic. He chose two items at random – a hairbrush and a lump of haematite – and attempted to reason out the method for transfiguring the one into the other.

Five minutes later, his concentration was broken by the arrival of the post. A whole flock of owls swooped into the Great Hall, carrying dangling letters and parcels and books, circling above the tables and spying out their owners. Draco felt an oddly warm feeling, as though a candle had been lit inside him, when his mother's owl glided gently down and settled on his shoulder.

'Morning, Raphael,' he greeted the owl, giving the tawny bird the corner of one of his pieces of toast and feeling the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, completely out of his control. After a few moments spent fighting the unwanted smile down, he carefully untied the letter from Raphael's leg and opened the parchment, looking both left and right to be sure he wasn't watched.

_Delphine,_

_ Thank you for lending me that book; I'm merely a quarter of the way through it and already I can tell it's going to become a favourite of mine. Do you happen to know if that author has any other books? I'm intending to go to Diagon Alley next Saturday, by which time I'll have finished this one and, hopefully, will be spoiling for more! I particularly like…_

Draco's forehead furrowed. Had Raphael delivered the letter to the wrong person? Delphine was the name of Pansy's mother, who his mother was fairly good friends with, and he couldn't see any coded meaning in his mother's words. But Raphael had never failed to deliver a letter correctly before…

However, as the first strains of confusion coiled through him like faintly choking mists, the letters on the page blurred, coiled in on themselves and reformed.

_My darling Draco,_

_ Firstly, I must apologise: both for taking so long to reply and for confusing you with the letter addressed to Delphine. Your father is the reason behind both these things; I fear he knows that I knew when you became human (the memory still brings a smile to my face!) and that I helped you escape before he could discover it. He's been reading all my letters and it's taken me this long to research the spell I used to hide this from him._

_The charm has a simple concept. It involves two letters: the real letter and the false letter (such as my letter to Delphine.) Place the fake letter on top of the real letter, touch your wand to the middle of the parchment and say, 'cela usque ad animi motus'. The letters will merge, and the false letter will appear to be the real one until the person holding it experiences an emotion, and change back once you let go of it. Thus Lucius only read my letter to Delphine – not this one._

_Use this charm when you reply to me, because your father will read the incoming owl (Pretend to be Delphine – she is a close friend and I've told her I'm using her as a subterfuge). I've been trying to discover what Lucius is planning, but with little success. He was at a Death Eater meeting a few days ago, and I tried to find out what was said about you, but all I could discover was that Lucius is intending to get someone at Hogwarts to spy on you. I don't know who, but Draco – be careful!_

_I wish more than ever that I could be with you now. It is difficult for anyone to love someone that is incapable of emotion, that can never recognise that love nor love back – but I do love you, and I have for many years. It feels like your letters can never tell me enough. I've known you all your life, but as a Fallen, not as a human, and the only glimpses I can get of the real you are through your letters._

_Are you coping alright? Do you need help? You mentioned asking Hermione Granger for help in your last letter – did you? I don't know much about her, I must confess, except that she's almost always top of your year. I hope she can help, or if not her then someone._

_What emotions have you felt? You've only told me about the negative ones so far; what positive ones have you felt?_

_Forgive my incessant questioning – I'm desperate for news of how you're coping. Write back: quickly and at length._

_Your loving mother._

He came to the end of the letter and realised he was smiling again; and his stomach tingled as though he'd drunk some warmly bubbling potion. Frowning, he forced the unwanted smile away. It was the oddest thing, for his expressions to change without him consciously changing them. He wasn't used to it, and it meant he was broadcasting his feelings to anyone who should chance to look at him.

Which wouldn't do if there were a spy watching him. Draco frowned, reading that paragraph of the letter again. _But all I could discover was that Lucius is intending to get someone at Hogwarts to spy on you. I don't know who, but Draco – be careful!_

He would have to be. As long as he remained human, his father was the enemy. Draco glanced around the Hall, as if he could catch the spy openly staring at him, scribbling notes about his behaviour, but obviously, no one was doing so.

Draco gave Raphael another stroke, then sent her to the Owlery to rest, before taking another piece of toast and sitting back to read his letter again.

* * *

Their Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons had proven to be both very interesting and very tiring. For the first part of the lesson, Professor Delaney would describe the spell they were learning that day, telling them the history, the incantation and wand movement, the uses and weaknesses of that curse, and various other important bits of information. Then the rest of the lesson was spent practicing.

Delaney seemed to be living up to his promising beginning; he was excellent at explaining complicated ideas and could hold the class' attention with remarkable ease. He was seemingly capable of teaching anyone to do anything: even Neville, who usually struggled learning new things, could get a spell to work within his first five tries, and with patient and kind correction from Delaney, could master it within the lesson.

There was only one thing Hermione would like to change about him; he never chose her to answer questions as much as she'd like, never more than once or twice in a lesson. But she ignored that, feeling it was an easy price to pay to have a teacher who wasn't a servant of Voldemort, trying to get Dumbledore thrown out, or a self-obsessed idiot. Besides, she answered questions too often anyway – it would do other people good to take their turns answering them. Delaney had probably noticed that and adjusted his questioning accordingly.

The end of the lesson came to the sound of Ron's stomach rumbling noisily, more than ready for lunch in the Great Hall. Quickly, they threw their things into their bags and scrambled to their feet.

'Mr Potter?' came Professor Delaney's voice. 'Could you stay for a minute?'

Harry nodded as the rest of the class hurried out of the room. 'You two can go, if you want,' he said to Ron and Hermione.

'I'll stay,' Hermione offered, still putting her things away rather more carefully than the others. Ron looked torn, but eventually agreed to wait for Harry too.

'Professor Delaney was gathering his various books and parchments into a pile on his desk. 'So, I heard the first meeting of your Defence Association was last night?' he said, giving Harry a wide smile. Harry nodded. 'I think it's an excellent idea, with You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters… tell me, how did it go?'

'It went well, I thought…' Harry said. 'We were really just doing basics, seeing how many people were interested…'

Delaney nodded, regarding Harry with an interested gaze. When the light caught his eyes right, they were a deep brown, but in darker areas like this one they appeared as black as the pupil. 'What kind of things are you planning on teaching?'

Hermione's concentration began to drift as she absent-mindedly put the last of her things into her bag. After all, she'd discussed this same topic with Harry and Ron more times than she could count…

What was really interesting her at that moment was Draco.

They'd arranged to meet in the library again at the end of the day. Hermione was rather pleased to see that Draco, who had repeatedly refused any offer of help, was now accepting it.

She didn't like the way their last conversation had gone. He hadn't spoken directly about what was wrong, what he was having problems with, but instead their conversation had twisted and turned between normal everyday things and sudden rather sharp glimpses of exactly what it meant to be a Fallen.

'I think it might be a useful one to teach them,' Harry was saying, now deep in discussion with Professor Delaney while Ron loitered by the door, 'because I don't think many of them are going to be hunting out Death Eaters, but they're likely to be attacked, and that's when those kinds of spells are useful.'

Hermione leant against the wall and returned to her thoughts. Every time she talked to Draco, she seemed to realise more and more how impossible it was to understand what he was, how completely this affected him. The big things were obvious, if difficult to grasp – he'd never felt love, or hate, or anger, until his mind had shifted.

But it was the little things that threw her, and in some ways frightened her more than the large things. He didn't have a favourite lesson, for example, didn't know which ones he liked and disliked. What about the Slytherins? They'd pretty much shunned him now, she knew, but before that he'd been friends with them just like anyone else, talked and done homework and argued and laughed… and he hadn't cared for any of them, hadn't felt anything for any of them. And they didn't even know that he hadn't.

She tried to imagine it, finding out that Harry or Ron had only been pretending to care all those years, and found it impossible. True, she doubted the Slytherins would have achieved such a level of friendship with Draco Malfoy, but it would still be a horrible thing to discover for anyone. Did any of the Slytherins even know? Would they ever know?

'I've kept you and your friends far too long, Mr Potter,' came Delaney's regretful voice, 'you'd better go to lunch. And remember, if you need any help finding suitable spells, just come and find me, I'd love to help.'

Almost in a daze, Hermione picked up her bag to the sound of Harry's thank-you and followed the two boys out, heading towards the Great Hall. Halfway down the corridor, she frowned and shook her head, as if trying to shake herself back to the here-and-now, and joined in Harry and Ron's conversation about spells and curses and hexes to teach the DA. She'd see Draco that night; there was plenty of time to think about him then.

* * *

'Well the first three years aren't exactly going to be going out and hunting down Death Eaters, are they?' Ron was saying. 'If they end up fighting it'll be _defensive_, because they're being attacked.'

'_Yes_,' Ginny replied with some exasperation from where she was sitting half on Dean's lap, 'but defensive spells alone won't do much good, will they? And the best defence is offence, anyway. What if the Death Eaters use Unforgivables? They can't defend against them.

The redhead's temper was rising; her eyebrows were drawn together over eyes that were an unusually dark shade of her usual brown. Her freckles were standing out vividly, and it rather annoyed Dean. She'd been discussing and arguing about the DA since they'd come in, and Ginny was, after all, his girlfriend.

'Yeah, but offence won't do much good against them either-'

'Yes it will!' Ginny insisted, getting rather flushed. 'They won't be able to cast an Unforgivable if they've got bats flying out of their nose, or their hair transfigured into Devils' Snare, or-'

Dean tangled his fingers in Ginny's hair, and was quite upset when she irritably pulled the gingery strands away from him, not even looking at him, ignoring him in favour of the argument.

'Or they're breaking out in boils the size of _teacups_!' she finished, looking rather as if she'd like to give Ron said boils.

Dean didn't mind the argument. Ginny, who had been rather shy and quiet in her first few years at Hogwarts, had become very passionate about things and would argue her point until the unfortunate second party either gave in or left. He liked that about her.

What he didn't like was that she was paying more attention to her argument than she was to him. She was half-sitting on his lap, of course, but rather than feeling comfortably boyfriend-and-girlfriend it made Dean feel like a sofa.

And maybe he was jealous of Ron and Hermione and Harry and Ginny, simply because they were all such close friends. They didn't realise it, but they were… _closer_ than a lot of other friends. Perhaps fighting evil did that. Perhaps saving each other time and time again from You-Know-Who and Death Eaters and gods knew what else made bonds between people that couldn't really be broken.

And he wanted that, to be that close to someone. He remembered second year, when the Heir of Slytherin had taken Ginny into the Chamber of Secrets, and Harry had saved her. He knew nothing more about it than that. Ginny had never told him anything about it; he'd never asked, knowing she wouldn't tell him. He wished it had been himself who saved her; perhaps then he'd have that bond with her, and wouldn't be forgotten.

'Ginny,' he said, cutting into the flow of argument without even realising he had spoken. 'Why don't we forget this and… I dunno, go for a walk outside or something?' He had the sudden impulse to be alone with her, to have her all to himself and not have to share her with brothers or heroes.

'But Dean, this is _important_,' Ginny protested. 'You can't leave the younger years completely ignorant of curses and hexes, Ron, they need…'

Dean tugged on her hand. 'Ginny,' he pleaded, because suddenly he couldn't bear to be ignored any longer, 'please? You can talk to Ron later…'

Harry interrupted from his seat in a large and comfortable armchair. 'I think Ginny's right,' he said. 'The younger ones need some basic offence; especially ones that will help stop Death Eaters. Like _impedimenta_.'

Ron considered this. 'I still think defence is more important…' he said warily. 'Maybe a little bit of offence…'

Ginny shook her head. 'More than a little bit. It should be half and half.'

'How about two thirds defence and one third offence?' Harry suggested, and neither one of them could argue with that. 'I was thinking of teaching some offence anyway…'

Ginny settled back comfortably into Dean's chest, smiling happily, but Dean still felt like furniture. 'Changed your mind about that walk?' he asked, and slipped his arms around her waist as if trying to claim her as his own. On the opposite sofa, Ron scowled – he still didn't approve of his sister dating.

But Ginny ignored Ron and gave Dean a smile and a tiny kiss on his jaw, which made Dean feel better than he had all day. 'I think I could use a walk. Just let me get my cloak,' she said, slipping out of his arms and heading for the dormitory.

Ron's gaze narrowed, but Dean didn't care. He might not be able to claim that Ginny was his and only his, but she would be for a while, and that would be enough.

For a while.

* * *

This time she arrived in the library before he did, so she slipped into her favourite chair and waited for a few minutes until he arrived, and spent the time tracing patterns of knots on the wooden table with one finger, thinking about emotions and what it must be like to lack them. It occurred to her that a human felt emotions more often than they realised, but Draco, who had never felt them before, would be constantly beset by new feelings, new experiences. Of course by now he should be getting used to a few of them, but still…

Hermione concentrated on herself for a second; trying to pinpoint any emotions she was feeling at that moment. She felt worried for Draco: a large fuzz of emotion that shifted aimlessly inside her chest banging against her ribs. She felt the sharp prickling of impatience, because she wanted him to be here, now, so she could see how he was for herself. She felt frustrated at being unable to do enough to help him, and annoyed at him for not talking about his problem as much as he should, and increasingly alarmed at the sheer number of things she was feeling without thinking about it.

She was so absorbed she didn't notice that Draco had arrived until he slid into the seat next to her and spoke, his tone almost weary, very simple and t-the-point. 'My father is spying on me.'

She jumped at the sudden sound of his voice, and then seriously hoped she'd misheard him when she realised what he'd said. 'What? Spying?'

'Yes.' Draco said shortly, crossing his arms on the table and leaning on them, looking up at her, and Hermione thought he looked afraid and somehow vulnerable, as though he were suddenly younger than his sixteen years. 'My mother wrote to me this morning…'

Hermione frowned. 'What does he want to know? Do you know why…?'

Draco shrugged. 'I don't have a clue. I know he wants me back on _his_ side,' and his tone left no doubt in Hermione's mind that Draco was referring to Voldemort. 'Half-Fallens are… naturally gifted at Dark Arts. Curses, hexes, spells to hurt people – that kind of thing.'

'How gifted?' Hermione asked with some trepidation. Mention of the Dark Arts made her uneasy, conjuring up memories of old books from the back shelves of the library. She'd read about the things the Dark Arts could do.

Before the conversation and his sprawl upon the table had made Draco appear young, almost childlike. At her question, his face seemed strangely old, work – except for his grey eyes, which shimmered with uncertainty. 'I cast my first Unforgivable,' he said, slowly and carefully, and Hermione shivered, 'when I was eight…'

'_Eight!_'

'Yes. Eight. Not on a human, though… I started on mice.'

His face seemed closed, but there was an odd hint of something else below the surface, something that rippled and vanished when she looked for it or possibly wasn't there at all.

A horrible feeling gripped her stomach as she asked, 'You haven't ever… used one on a human, have you?'

'No,' he said, after the merest second's pause, with the merest waver to his voice that said it might be a lie, but for her own sake she told herself she was imagining it. Draco changed the subject deftly. 'So I'm quite valuable to Voldemort's cause, as you may imagine…'

'And they want you back.' Hermione mused. 'Do you know who the spy is?'

Draco shook his head. 'I'll keep my eyes open.'

* * *

**A/N: **And now I'm going to go get some ice cream and get to work on the next chapter. I'm going to be busy next week – work experience! I'm working in a local school, including screaming five-year-olds and a riveting school trip to a farm. You know what would really keep my spirits up when I'm trying to persuade the children that really, pulling on the baby chicken's head is not a good idea, don't you? Reviews!


	23. Exercise in Trust

**Chapter 22: Exercise in Trust**

**Disclaimer:** Alas, everything is JK Rowling's, and I'm only borrowing them for my enjoyment. Of course, not all the enjoyment is uploaded here on fanfiction.net… this said with a quick glance towards my bed, on which a topless Draco is lying gagged and bound. Ahem. But they all enjoy to JK Rowling really.

**Thanks for 701 reviews goes to: **Storm079,Arafel2, relena333, draconas, Flexi Lexi, Kiyoko, Go10, Shadow Slytherin, kessi1011, willowfairy, Madam Midnight, Alyssium, KrystyWroth, lavender skies, Ellie (x2), brettley, Saraiyu, Plaidly Lush, Hidden Relevance, Haystack8190, PINSXandXSPIKES, dixiechic581, Princess of Light, Saotoshi, JoeBob1379, langocska, cassie, citcat299, fantasymei-aqua, Krispykreme1468, Pertique, DeLaney.

**A/N:** Normally I don't respond to individual reviews, but I think this chapter I would like to make an exception in the interests of making one thing absolutely clear: I know this is a slow fic. I am fully aware that this is a slow fic, and I personally want it to be that way. I want to be able to take some time to have a proper play with my characters, to explore their development and thoughts and actions at my own pace. I'm fully aware that there will be people who aren't interested in slower-paced fics – they are more psychological and tend to need more thought, which doesn't suit everyone, including a good few of my close friends. (Though I do promise that there will be plenty of exciting bits to look forward to!)

I don't mind constructive criticism, or people offering advice for improvement; they're helpful and interesting and often inspire new ideas and avenues to explore. And I'm well aware that some people will not like this style of writing. However, I recall quite clearly saying that this would be a slow fic. Thus I would ask people who don't like slow fics to go read something else, instead of reviewing to tell me that slow-paced stories are 'painstaking' or 'monotonous'. It's like someone who doesn't like scary stories going on to a story labelled horror and telling the author their story is going 'downhill fast' because it's too frightening. If you don't like slow-paced stories, don't read them! There's plenty of other fics out there.

I'd also like to remark on – 'but you need to keep readers and what you've got dosn't do that.' This seems a rather odd comment to make, considering that my review count just reached 700… thank you to all my reviewers!

Anyway, onto happier things. I finished my first week of work experience without seriously maiming any of the kids! They changed the trip at the last minute from a farm to a park, so the chickens were saved, but I soon became Little 'Miss, Sophie's fallen off the climbing frame and hurt her head!' I got completely worn out though. Thirty demanding children are very seriously tiring. The school day ends at three not for the kids' sake, but for the teachers'! But I did well, and have been sent back with a glowing report, a Winnie the Pooh card and chocolates. The chocolates were definitely the best part of the whole venture…

And now, onto the chapter. There's a nice fat Draco/Hermione scene coming up; rejoice! The characters took over in that scene, sending me gibbering to her and panicking about them going OOC, but she assures me they remained IC. So if it is OOC, it's all her fault for lying to me…

Enjoy!

* * *

_… that exercise in trust, where those in front_

_stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall_

_backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight._

**_Simon Armitage, Homecoming._**

* * *

'Why does Charms have to be first thing?' Ron groaned as he took a bit of his pancakes. 'I still haven't managed to get that fingernail charm right yet…' The sixth years were leaning charms for use on humans, and Professor Flitwick had started with simpler, less life-threatening ones, such as hair-growth and eyebrow-plucking charms. This hadn't prevented Neville from almost suffocating under his own hair in Tuesday's lesson.

Hermione bit into a piece of toast thoughtfully. 'Fingernail charm… _Unguis Sterne_?'

'Yeah, that's the one,' Ron said. 'How do you know it? You aren't even _doing_ Charms this year…'

'From the Yule Ball in fourth year. I used more charms and spells and potions preparing for that then I ever want to use again in my life…' Hermione shook her head. 'Anyway, try the spell and I'll see where you're going wrong…'

Harry watched as Hermione attempted to correct Ron's technique. He'd managed to get the spell right after a couple of tries – his fingernails were now beautifully smooth and shiny – but he lacked the ability to spot what someone else was doing wrong. Whereas Hermione, as both the boys knew from experience, could quickly figure out…

Professor McGonagall's voice startled him out of his thoughts. 'Mr Potter?'

He looked round to see the familiar face of his Head of House. 'Yes, Professor?'

'Professor Dumbledore would like to see you…'

'Is something wrong?'

His mind began leaping to awful conclusions and worst-case scenarios. Someone he knew could have died – were all his friends here? Ginny wasn't, and he had time to feel the most horrible sensation of shock – like having his spine struck with a xylophone hammer – before he realised that if Ginny were dead, Professor McGonagall would go to Ron first…

She shook her head. 'No, nothing out of the ordinary. You have permission to miss the beginning of Charms, but I suggest you hurry. The password is Chocolate Frog.'

Harry nodded and got to his feet, muttering a goodbye to Hermione and Ron, who had broken off their impromptu tutoring to listen to his conversation. 'Bye, you two – see you in Potions, Ron,' he said, and headed for the doors. Behind him, his friends started their conversation again.

'Right, Ron, you need to pay more attention to…'

At least, he reminded himself as he made his way out of the Great Hall, McGonagall had told him that nothing was wrong. It couldn't be any of his friends at Hogwarts – they'd all been in the Great Hall, apart from Ginny, and McGonagall would certainly have gone to Ron first if that had been the case. Who else? The Dursleys? Would Voldemort have killed them? Or what about someone at the Order, someone like Lupin or Tonks…

Harry shuddered, and hurried onwards, trying to convince himself that this couldn't possibly be about a death. It was something normal, he reasoned, something normal and everyday and _nothing to do with Voldemort_.

* * *

He made it to Dumbledore's office in five minutes, and ran up the moving staircase, too impatient and too worried to wait for the stairs to carry him up. At the top, he knocked sharply on the door, breathing slightly hard from hurrying there too fast.

'Come in.'

Professor Dumbledore was seated at his desk, a long piece of parchment spread over it, which he was slowly covering with his small, cramped handwriting. It looked to be a letter, but as Harry came in, Dumbledore started rolling it up, seemingly finished.

'Harry,' he said with a smile, though Harry noticed that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Dumbledore looked tired and somehow more worn than the last time Harry had seen him: there were creases and wrinkles on his face that were more to do with worry than laughter. Harry found a corner of his mind asking in a whisper how old Dumbledore was – while he'd known that the Headmaster was old, he'd never considered him to be so. Now he appeared to have aged a decade in the past month.

Still, it didn't distract him from his primary fear. 'Is everyone okay? Nothing's… happened?' he asked.

The merest hint of a puzzled frown passed across Dumbledore's face before he realised what Harry was asking. 'No, everyone's fine. A little tired, perhaps, in the case of the Order. But fine.'

Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and half-smiled in the light sensation of relief. Dumbledore smiled back – a real smile this time – and gestured to a seat.

'First of all,' he said as Harry sank into the soft cushions of the chair, 'I wanted to know if _you_ are fine.'

Dumbledore's pale blue eyes suddenly caught Harry's own, making him feel uncomfortable. 'I'm okay,' he mumbled, knowing it was a lie, but managed to say, 'At least, I'm getting _better_,' more loudly.

The Headmaster nodded, breaking the eye contact. 'I hoped so. It would be… too early… to hope for you to be completely normal. Perhaps I could say you never were,' he added, almost as an afterthought. 'I should have checked on you before, and I should spend longer doing so now, but alas, my time is stretched all too thinly these days…'

'Fighting Voldemort?' Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore nodded. 'Yes, and his Death Eaters. There are still plenty who wish to align themselves with him for one reason or another… power, fear, old prejudices…' He shook his head, as if trying to knock the hard, drawn expression that had come over him off his face, and his usual kindly smile replaced it.

'But there's no need for you to be thinking of those things. Not yet,' Dumbledore said firmly. 'I think the most important thing for you to do is restart your lessons in Occlumency.'

Harry's heart both sank and rose at once, leaving him in a state of confusion. On one hand, he wanted more than ever to prevent Voldemort gaining access to his mind after Sirius had died because of him. On the other, he had no good memories of Occlumency lessons…

'Is Professor Snape gong to be teaching me again?' he asked quietly, barely daring to hope that the answer would be no. Who else could teach him, other than Dumbledore, and he was far too busy…

Dumbledore nodded. 'Yes, he will be. It's taken me quite some time to persuade him, but in the end he agreed.'

The memory of Occlumency lessons with Snape rose up in Harry's mind again, repeated visits to the things he was always trying to forget, and he knew that the last thing he wanted was for an irate Snape to go poking around in his head. Not now, not with Sirius's loss and the guilt from that still so clear and vivid in his memory; a wound only just beginning to scab over.

But that was exactly the point, wasn't it? The reason he _had_ to do this, however much it ended up hurting. Sirius had already died because he, Harry, hadn't been able to tell that Voldemort was attacking his mind, hadn't been able to defend himself. How could he refuse to learn it now? Any one of his friends could die if he didn't learn, if he was tricked again – Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Seamus or Dean or Neville – and he couldn't let that happen.

He glanced up to where Dumbledore was watching. 'When will it start?' he asked quietly.

* * *

None of the Slytherins noticed or cared when their newest outcast slipped out of the common room, heading for the library and his meeting with Hermione. Well, almost none. Pansy and Blaise broke off their conversation to stare at him openly, frowning; then Pansy shook her head and they began chatting again.

They had been his friends once, Draco remembered; before he'd changed and had to flee his own home. Pansy and Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle, He'd eaten with them at every meal, sat next to them in class, plotted ways to humiliate Potter with them, done homework with them, lounged around the common room with them…

No longer. One of them might even be Lucius' spy, reporting Draco's every move to his father.

He was aware you were meant to be sad when you lost friends, and had adjusted his behaviour accordingly, but he didn't really feel anything. Occasionally there was a kind of irritation which he thought must be like losing an arm or leg, the feeling of trying to reach out and having nothing there to reach with. For five years he'd been able to count on Crabbe or Goyle backing him up if anything should degenerate to physical violence, or Blaise there to discuss schoolwork and occasionally philosophy with, or Pansy with a helpful charm if he lost the immaculate perfection he'd needed as a leading Slytherin.

The fact that they weren't there any longer annoyed him, but he didn't feel sad about it.

Draco had thought about this for a long time, and realised it must be something to do with emotions. He'd done all the usual friendship-things with his fellow Slytherins. After five years, they knew each other inside out. Crabbe had been claustrophobic since he was seven, when he'd sneaked into his mother's walk-in wardrobe, shut the door and been unable to get out until a house elf found him three hours later. If Goyle didn't manage at least seven hours of sleep, he would be in a dreadful mood the next morning – he'd once punched Millicent Bulstrode so hard she was out cold for an hour, just for smiling and saying 'Good morning.' They still scared the first-years with that story sometimes. Blaise loved chocolate, animals, philosophy and anything more than two thousand years old; Draco had once caught her reading Vergil in the original Latin, although to be fair, she had needed a dictionary. Pansy could come off as a complete airhead at times, but while she was a devoted follower of fashion, she could also be incredibly caring if something was wrong.

And they knew as much about him. Except, Draco realised, they didn't actually know him at all. They knew the person he'd invented, with emotions and feelings and personality planned exactly how he wanted them to be, to manipulate those around him in order to fulfil his overwhelming instinct to cause harm.

They'd been friends with a lie, he mused as he reached the Library door and pushed it open. He'd just been using them, manipulating them to his wishes, each one with their own page in his mental catalogue that listed useful qualities, weak points, interesting knowledge, to be carefully utilised like chess pieces. Players do not care about their pawns, their knights or rooks; but only about themselves and their game.

Draco still didn't know why that felt so _wrong_.

Hermione was already at their usual table, sitting back on one of the library's wooden chairs and flicking randomly through a book while she waited.

'You look puzzled,' she remarked as he slid into a seat beside her. 'Something confusing you?'

'Apart from the entire range of human emotions? No, I can't think of anything,' he said, leaning his elbows on the desk.

He noticed the very slightest flush of embarrassment tinting her cheeks pale pink. 'Alright, stupid question, I guess,' she said, closing her book and putting it down on the table. 'Anything in particular?'

He wanted to ask about friendship, but that odd sensation he'd assumed to be awkwardness came over him, a bothersome feeling as though his stomach had been removed, unfolded and spread flat, then folded up wrong and put back in again. Bloody things.

'Not really,' he replied, and her face fell in disappointment. He wondered why – she didn't want him to be confused, as far as he knew. 'Just… general things.'

Hermione sighed. 'Draco, there isn't much point in meeting like this if you aren't going to talk about anything you need help with.'

'We don't have to meet…'

'But I want to _help_ you!' she insisted, with a sudden flash of vehemence that made Draco start. 'And you said you wanted help, so I don't understand why you won't just tell me what's wrong and let me try to explain things.'

And that was more awkwardness; the feeling of having skin that tingled and itched and didn't quite fit right, or having bones the wrong shape, or having foreign blood pulsing in your veins. He slid his elbows forward, sinking to the desk, and buried half his face in the crook of his arm, his nose just resting atop the sleeve of his robe. Too late, he realised how stupid he must look, but in an odd way it made him feel better.

There was a silent pause while Hermione frowned at him in what he identified as a mix of anger and distress. He didn't know all that much about Hermione, he reflected; nowhere near as much as he knew about his fellow Slytherins. They didn't do nearly enough of the usual friendship activities, like going to Hogsmede together, or eating together, or working in class together. They talked quite a bit; that was all.

He remembered lessons from his father on friendship and how to fake it, all the rituals that should be followed, the correct body language, the tones of voice for every situation, the right things to say and attitudes to be pretended. But if there was one thing he knew about emotions, it was that there was more to them than making the right expression and the correct reaction. People didn't even think about their reactions. They simply reacted, based on the illogical, unthinking dictum of emotions.

So what was friendship? The huge and complex riddle of actions and attitudes that had taken him years to perfect, or something emotional that he couldn't comprehend?

Hermione was still watching him, her forehead slightly furrowed and her brown eyes a shade darker than usual. She wanted to help him; wasn't that one of the things friends did? Help each other? But she'd wanted to help him even when they were still enemies, back at the Order.

Draco remembered seeing Ellen being attacked by the third-years, and wondered whether it was the same impulse that had driven Hermione to help him, that _compassion_ which he didn't know how to defend himself against. Almost before he thought about it, he found himself speaking; compassion had been painful when he resisted it, and a part of him didn't want Hermione to suffer more than she had to.

'Friendship,' he said suddenly, breaking the silence. 'What's friendship?'

Hermione sat back in her chair, appearing to contemplate the question, and it amazed Draco that normal humans could live with emotions for years and still have to think about them if they were asked.

'It's a lot of things,' she said eventually. 'You have friends among the Slytherins, don't you? Crabbe and Goyle?'

'Not any more, not since I left my father,' Draco pointed out. 'And I wasn't properly friends with them anyway. No emotions, remember? I went through the motions; that was all.'

Hermione bit her lip. 'Well,' she said slowly, 'you know part of it then. Part of being friends is talking to each other, and sharing secrets, and doing things together…'

'And the other part?' Draco prompted.

'Is not easy to explain. It's… well, Harry and Ron and I didn't become friends until… you remember in our first year at Halloween, when that mountain troll got into the dungeons?' Draco nodded, and turned his head sideways to face her properly. 'Well, I was in the girl's bathroom at the time, and the troll came in behind me… I didn't have my wand, I thought I was going to die. Then Harry and Ron ran in, and they managed to knock it out.'

Draco snorted. 'Just like a Gryffindor. They're lucky they didn't get killed.'

'Probably, but I'd have been killed if they hadn't saved me. And we've been friends ever since.'

He didn't understand. 'So to become friends you have to save each other from a troll?'

'No… well, perhaps metaphorically.' That odd feeling of confusion was coming over him again, the one that felt like a choking fog inside his head. Hermione must have seen it on his face, because she quickly attempted to explain. 'I mean, to be friends you have to share experiences. It doesn't have to be fighting a mountain troll, it can be something as simple as… your first ride on the Hogwarts Express together, or making a feather float in Charms. Memorable things. And you have to care about each other, and trust each other, and be loyal to each other. All of which happened when we were fighting the troll.'

Draco considered this. 'I think I understand that,' he said slowly.

Hermione beamed. 'And then all those things kind of make… a bond between you. So you want them to be happy and you worry about them if they're depressed, and you want to spend time with them and help them.'

He could grasp these things in theory, but couldn't connect then with feelings yet beyond that of compassion, of caring about someone else with complete disregard for oneself. After all, how many times had Hermione and Weasley followed Potter into danger?

But that couldn't be all there was to friendship. Hermione wanted to help him, spent time with him and cared about him. As far as he knew, she hadn't told anyone about what he was, and that made her loyal too. Which meant that either there was a large chunk she'd missed out, or…

'Are you my friend?' he asked, frowning.

Hermione seemed rather startled. 'I… I don't know. I never thought about it.' She paused, and Draco watched her think, watched her twisting and tearing the ends of her hair and watched her lips curl in evaluation. 'I guess I might,' she said eventually.

He didn't know why he smiled then; except that it felt like a phoenix feather had settled in his chest, warm and golden and full of strength, and Hermione smiled back too.

There was a short silence then, before Hermione asked 'Do you think you're friends with me?'

How could he know that? 'I haven't a clue,' he replied, 'I don't know what half those things you described _feel_ like. I don't know trust, or loyalty, or any of those things.'

For a brief second she looked hurt at that, before her features cleared, and Draco wondered why. Why was she upset that he didn't know what trust was? Perhaps she thought she'd failed to help him enough; that made sense.

'I think I might be able to help with trust,' she mused, and he looked up to see her light brown eyes almost sparkling with delight. 'Stand up. We're going to play a game.'

'A game?' he asked bemusedly, but he got to his feet anyway and leant against the table. 'How's a game going to help with emotions?'

'It's a Muggle game. The Trust game,' Hermione replied, grinning, then started giving orders. Right, stand with your back to me… a little closer than that. Good. Now spread your arms out.'

Draco, wondering what on earth this had to do with trust, obeyed. 'You aren't going to tickle me, are you? Because I'm not ticklish.'

'No, nothing like that. Though the idea is tempting.' He could hear the laughter in her voice. 'Right, close your eyes,' – he did so – 'and let yourself fall backwards.'

Was she mad?

He opened one eye and twisted his head to look at her. 'What?' he asked incredulously.

'I'll catch you,' she promised, 'Don't worry.'

'And exactly what does this have to do with trust?' Draco demanded.

'The idea is that you have to put all your trust in the person catching you,' Hermione explained. 'So if you trust me – if you know what trust is – you'll be able to let yourself fall.'

Draco stared at her. 'I haven't a clue what trust is,' he pointed out.

'It doesn't matter. You might feel it without realising,' Hermione said, her voice suddenly determined, 'Now close your eyes. I promise I'll catch you.'

He shut his eyes, plummeting himself into the darkness of his own head. Was Hermione still there? She could have moved away, and he'd never know it – but she wouldn't do that. Would she?

He supposed that was the nature of the game, to see whether you thought someone would leave you to fall. But that was character assessment, not trust. He knew Hermione wasn't the kind of person who'd let him fall. He knew she'd catch him.

Carefully, he rocked back on his heels. It was against every instinct to fall backwards blindly, uncertain that he'd be caught. But he knew Hermione well enough, didn't he? He knew she'd catch him. But that wasn't trust.

And suddenly, with the same kind of feeling that he got from looking at a picture of a vase and suddenly seeing two faces, he realised. He could analyse Hermione's character for years and never be fully sure that she'd catch him. Trust was saying you were sure of being caught, no matter how sure you really were.

So did he trust her?

He rocked back on the balls of his feet again, then with a sudden reckless surge of adrenaline he pushed himself all the way back, found himself falling, waited for Hermione's arms to catch him and though for a horrible minute she wasn't going to…

And then he felt her arms grab hold of him, and heard her laugh a little in surprise, and opened his eyes to see her bright and flushed and grinning down at him, and it almost felt as good as flying.

He grinned back.

* * *

**A/N: **_Unguis Sterne_ means 'smoothen the fingernail' - one I'd quite like to use on my toenails, because they're horrible.

As I said, they ran off with me in that last scene. But I was assured they were IC, and also cute, and it should keep all of you who are baying for romance happy for a little while, because while it's all platonic so far I definitely got the feeling that there was potential… Anyway, review, or I'll Polyjuice you into Harry and make you go to Occlumency instead! And you wouldn't want Snape poking around your head, would you? No? Well then, review…


	24. Amicitia

**Chapter 23: Amicitia**

**Disclaimer:** Any lawyer who can actually be arsed to sue me for not writing a disclaimer seriously needs to get a life and a hobby. In case any really boring lawyers with nothing better to do come along: I don't own Harry Potter and the rest of his merry world. JK Rowling does.****

**Thanks for 743 reviews goes to: liar, samhaincay, Go10, DeLavy, Storm079 (x2), Orchid6297, kessi1011, relena33, Saraiyu, Flexi Lexi, PINSXandXSPIKES, whacked, RedCinders, RedWitch1, KrystyWroth, Sutenayi, Vfoxy713, nikethana, tennisplaya278, Madam Midnight, crzyforlegolas, celesta13579, CozzaGirl16, mesmer, Angela, Raiast, Lady Russell Holmes, jules37, Alexi Lupin, Saotoshi, draconas, **

**A/N:** Thanks for all the positive reviews! I know I shouldn't let people like that annoy me, but it was a complaint a few people had mentioned and I just wanted to make absolutely clear what my viewpoint on the speed of this story was. And thanks loads to everyone who said they liked the slower pace! It made me feel tons better.

And yes, I do agree that it's a shame I spent half my A/N talking about a negative review while I never get to thank people individually for positive reviews. The simple problem is that I don't have the space to give individual feedback. Take the previous chapter alone; there were 43 reviews on that, and if I wrote just a few sentences to each reviewer I'd end up with an A/N as long as the chapter! I would like to find some better way of showing my appreciation to all my wonderful reviewers that doesn't result in a massive A/N… does anyone have any ideas?

On a more negative note (well, a positive one for me!) I'm on holiday next week, boating on the Norfolk Broads. And boats are infamous for their lack of Internet access, you know, so… **no chapter next week**. Sorry!

However, the boating holiday won't be a complete waste when it comes to writing, because after the week's holiday comes the long, long days spent loafing around at home, and with those comes more time for writing, and with more time for writing comes… A new fanfiction. I'm going to be finalising the plot details on the boat (all my Harry Potter books are already packed!) and starting to write it soon after. Uploading schedule is yet to be decided, but it will be written in addition to Fallen (i.e. Fallen will continue to update as normal.)

I'll tell you a little bit about the story to whet your appetite. Inspiration came partly from Journals, because one of the things I liked and was most proud of about that fic was that I'd taken two clichés that are often dreadful, hated and badly-written (Draco self harming and Draco and Hermione being Head Boy and Girl), made them more realistic, more interesting, in-character and properly written, and come out with something I, and my reviewers, actually really enjoyed. So I'm doing that again.

The cliché in question is one I'm sure you've all come across at some point: the one where Hogwarts puts on a production of Romeo and Juliet, Draco and Hermione land the lead roles, and they fall in love by Scene Two. Know the ones I mean? Now remember that this is cyropi writing, so trust me. Replace Romeo and Juliet with Macbeth, make the characters and their relationship more realistic (no falling in love by scene two!), give the play a greater role in the story than that of an excuse to make the two spend time together. Add magic, swords and black linen shirts, a little too much typecasting for comfort, lighting, Death Eaters, guilt, NEWT level Muggle Studies, and the choice between good and evil…

… and that should give you some idea of what to expect.

Don't worry; I promise it'll be a good one. Now that I've described it, I'll let you go on to the latest chapter of Fallen: enjoy!

* * *

_Never refuse any advance of friendship, for if nine out of ten bring you nothing, one alone may repay you._

**_Madame de Tencin_**

* * *

Hermione left the library smiling that evening, feeling much like she did when she got full marks on a particularly difficult piece of work. Draco wasn't exactly a project or an essay, and she wasn't being marked on how well she helped him, but…

He'd been smiling. And he said he thought he understood trust now. And he might be her friend, except he didn't know what that felt like yet.

Hermione felt a surge of determination to help him understand friendship completely.

She made her way back to the Gryffindor tower, her feet following the familiar passageways and corridors automatically while she thought about Draco. He'd changed a lot, of course – that was to be expected. After all, he'd told her that his personality before had all been an act with what sounded, to Hermione, like little more than a robot underneath. Though of course, Draco hadn't used that metaphor, not knowing much about Muggle technology.

The Draco she was coming to know, therefore, was pretty much a completely new individual, his personality only just starting to manifest itself among what must be a confusing tangle of emotions. Some traits were the same. He retained a kind of sharpness, which showed itself most clearly when he was annoyed, making him quick to snap a biting comment at someone. '_If I knew what that felt like I wouldn't be here, would I?' _She could imagine him saying that.__

He'd become annoyed quite often at first, back at the Order – she remembered being afraid of him. But nowadays when they met in the library it was limited to a few sparks of frustration flashing in his eyes.

Other things: he kept that imperious air she'd seen around him when he ordered Crabbe and Goyle around, or acted as the head of his little court of Slytherins. He was an outcast to them now, but still sometimes he'd give her an order or command as though she were a house elf. Hermione didn't think he meant it; it was part of what he did, and she had more important things then manners to help him with.

But there were new things too. The old Draco, the acted Draco, would never have leant his head upon is arm and asked _'Are you my friend?'_ with an almost childlike innocence upon his face. Had he even known he seemed so like a child when he asked that? Of course, in the realm of emotion he was a child – a two-month-old child, to be precise – but still…

The old Draco would never have smiled at her, or gone along with her Trust game idea, or even accepted her offer of help. The new Draco – the real Draco – had.

Hermione was quite glad that this new Draco was a lot better than the old one.

She didn't realise that she's reached the Fat Lady until the familiar picture cut into her thoughts with, 'My, you look pensive. Is something wrong?'

'No, no,' Hermione assured the picture, 'something's getting a lot better, actually…'

'Good,' the portrait beamed. 'If you'd been two minutes sooner you'd have run into, what's her name, your friend, that redheaded little thing…'

'Ginny?' asked Hermione.

'Yes, that's her,' nodded the Fat Lady with a wide smile. 'I'm terrible with names… anyway, she just left two minutes ago with her boyfriend,' she added with a giggle, and Hermione smiled, able to picture exactly how Ron would react to that.

'Anyway, the picture continued, 'You'll be wanting to get in, yes? Your two friends are in there, such nice boys…'

Hermione nodded. 'Amicitia,' she said, and the picture frame obligingly swung open.

Ron and Harry were in there, as the Fat Lady had said, and she quickly spotted them sitting together in a corner by the fireplace. Ron was leaning forward in earnest, his elbows resting on his knees, while Harry was frowning as he leant back into the pillows of his sofa, his knees drawn up to his chest with his feet curled around the edge of the seat. From this alone she could tell that they were talking about something important, and Hermione was quickly able to guess what that was.

Harry hadn't come back to breakfast after his talk with Dumbledore that morning, and she hadn't had any lessons with him, but she'd found him in the Great Hall at lunchtime and asked what Dumbledore had wanted. He'd glanced quickly up and down the table before saying, 'Remedial Potions,' in a quiet voice. Which was as good as a code word for Occlumency.

He'd been unusually quiet throughout the meal. Hermione had pointed out that really, 'taking Remedial Potions' was all for the best, but Harry had either just ignored her or said that he knew, that was why he'd agreed to take it.

'Is it because of Snape?' Hermione had asked, and Harry had simply nodded.

He had a good reason, Hermione thought as she made her way around the tables and sofas to the corner where Ron and Harry were sat. Snape had always disliked Harry, right from their first ever Potions lesson. He'd been especially bitter that afternoon, taking every opportunity to make some sarcastic comment or cold remark. He'd taken ten points from Gryffindor because Harry had, in Snape's opinion, chopped his shrivelfig too coarsely. Hermione had been watching. If they were larger than the perfect size, it was by no more than a millimetre or two, and Harry's Resolution Potion turned out right anyway.

'-that greasy prat,' Ron was saying. 'I'd hate to let him inside my head… oh, hi, Hermione. Didn't see you come in.'

'Well, you looked pretty engrossed in conversation to me,' Hermione replied with a smile, taking a seat on the sofa beside Harry. 'And Harry's not going to be _letting _Snape inside his head, are you? You're going to be trying to block him.'

Harry gave a short nod and looked at the arm of the sofa.

'You're meant to try and relax your mind,' Hermione went on, trying to be helpful. I think Lavender's got a book with relaxation techniques in it in our dorm, I could ask to borrow it for you…'

He shook his head. 'I can't relax.'

'Why not?' Ron asked. 'I mean-'

Harry interrupted. 'Because Snape hates me with a passion, and he's about to take a poke around my memories, which really _aren't_ winning any prizes for sweetness and light. Why do you think I can't relax?'

There was a small pause in which Ron fidgeted and Hermione bit her lip.

'Harry,' Hermione began at last, her tone placating, 'that's exactly why you should try to relax, you see? You won't be able to block him if you're tense, and then it'll just end up being worse… I'll go ask Lavender for that book,' she finished, getting up to go, but Harry caught hold of her sleeve.

'Don't,' he said, and Hermione was struck by the expression on his face; the same one that she'd seen on Draco's not an hour ago when he'd asked _are you my friend?_ The same sudden impression of being childlike, and oddly frail, as though she could shatter him with a misplaced word, an erroneous action, and see him crumble to dust and shadows at her feet.

There were differences; Harry's eyes were desperate, pleading, while Draco's had held very little entreaty, if any – had Draco known what he wanted? And Harry's look was more intense, darker. It was still childlike, still fragile, but vivid as well, as though the child he resembled had lost its innocence somewhere among blood and shadows and screaming, and come out forever marred.

Wordlessly, Hermione sat down, and Harry let go of her sleeve.

'Harry…' Ron began, frowning, but the green-eyed boy just curled himself tighter on the sofa, not looking at either of his friends.

'I don't want to talk about this any more,' Harry said wearily. 'Could we please talk about something else?'

The first thing that came to Hermione's mind was, naturally, Draco, and with him a whole host of topics, but an instant after she thought of them, Hermione remembered that she couldn't talk to Harry or Ron about that. They knew nothing of her meetings with the Slytherin – she'd told them she was just going to the library, a perfectly acceptable excuse to the boys. And they didn't know about Draco being half-Fallen, or about Lucius spying on him, or anything like that…

'When are Quidditch tryouts?' asked Ron, returning to a safe, dependable topic. 'Next week?'

Harry merely nodded, seeming distracted.

'Good thing we've got you back as Seeker, mate. And Ginny's trying out for Chaser… you've seen her fly, what do you think of her chances?'

Harry appeared to consider this, and Hermione was glad to see that he was returning to normal. Still… something felt wrong, as though she'd been listening to a familiar tune being played and someone had struck a wrong note, letting it linger in the air, vibrating across her skin.

She'd never had a secret like this from Ron and Harry before. Excepting the occasional argument or fight, they'd been together through everything, ever since that troll had stumbled into the bathroom and the boys had come racing in after it. The Philosopher's Stone, the Basilisk in the Chamber, Sirius and Buckbeak and the Shrieking Shack, the Triwizard Tournament, the fateful events at the Department of Mysteries… they'd always been a team. They'd always worked together.

Now there was something she couldn't tell them, because it wasn't her secret to tell. It was Draco's secret, and she wasn't about to share it with anyone. It was, after all, a rather large secret. And he trusted her, didn't he? She remembered how glad she'd been when he'd tipped himself backwards to fall into her arms. He'd been surprisingly light, now she thought about it – his build was slender, but he wasn't scrawny, definitely not thin enough to weigh as little as he had done…

'Hufflepuff are weakest on offensive play,' Harry was telling Ron, 'but you can't dismiss them so easily, their defensive strategies are amazing…'

At least Harry was back to normal. Hermione regretted being unable to tell them about Draco, but she wasn't going to break his confidence in her. She couldn't tell them that he was half-Fallen, and she couldn't tell them about the spy without revealing that she was meeting with him – and then the boys would be suspicious. They appeared to regard him rather like they did Snape – they accepted he was on Dumbledore's side and was therefore 'good', but they still distrusted and disliked him.

The portrait hole slammed open with a loud band and a shout of annoyance from the Fat Lady, and an enraged Ginny stormed into the common room, her hair dishevelled and flying around her face. Conversations faltered as people turned to see what the noise was, and saw the furious redhead, her robes swishing dramatically around her feet as she walked, trailed by a rather timid Dean Thomas.

Ron got to his feet as Ginny approached, fraternal worry etched into his face. 'Are you okay?' he asked, as the Gryffindors around them began to pick up the threads of their conversations. A sudden thought struck Ron, and he glanced suspiciously at Dean. 'He didn't…?'

Ron's over-protectiveness, as annoying as it could be, seemed to be just the kind of familiar, endearing occurrence to defuse Ginny's anger. She snorted, throwing a smile at Dean. 'He didn't do anything I didn't want him to,' she said with a wink, causing Dean to go red and Ron to look very scared.

'Ginny, _please_ don't tell me…'

Dean held up his hands. 'Kissing, that's all, I swear…' he said, and slipped into the seat next to Harry, glaring at his girlfriend. 'Embarrassing wretch.'

She smiled cheekily back, and she and Ron sat down together. 'So what happened?' Hermione asked. 'You seemed ready to spit fireballs when you came in…'

A frown returned to Ginny's face. 'Snape caught us,' she said, nodding at Dean, and Ron choked. 'Then we both got detentions. On separate nights…'

'It was embarrassing,' Dean added; he was going red at just the memory. 'You've seen him being sarcastic in class, that's nothing compared to what he's like if he finds you… er…' He trailed off with a glance at Ron.

'Kissing in an empty classroom,' Ginny supplied cheerfully, grinning when Ron turned an odd shade of purple. But then her face darkened with a frown, and she curled her feet up onto the sofa. 'And then it got worse…'

'What?' Hermione asked, almost laughing. 'Worse than being caught kissing by Snape?'

Ginny's face remained serious. 'I mean it. On the way back here we found some Slytherins taunting one of the Muggleborn Hufflepuffs...'

A silence fell over the group; a silence that was in dark counterpoint to the bright and friendly chatter of the Gryffindors surrounding them.

'Ginny just went mental,' Dean said in an awe-filled voice. 'Never seen her like that…'

Hermione sighed. 'Well, I can't say I didn't expect it. You've seen the Daily Prophet lately; the Slytherins are just the first to start showing it…'

'Remember the days when the only person who called people a Mudblood was Malfoy?' Harry asked, almost nostalgically. 'I'd rather have him being horrible to us again and no one else being prejudiced then this.

There was a general murmur of assent around the group. Hermione was not very surprised to find that she didn't agree.

* * *

'_Cela usque ad animi motus._'

The two pieces of parchment shimmered for a moment beneath Draco's wand, seeming to turn to translucent liquid, run together, and solidify again. He cast his eyes over the false letter, signed with a flourishing _Delphine_.

He picked up the letter to test it. For an instant, nothing happened… and just as he began to fear that he hadn't done the spell right, the parchment morphed into his original letter.

Draco had written a long description of everything he could think of to describe, including the things he'd talked about with Hermione only an hour ago. Writing them down had felt strangely good, and it'd helped him think about the confusing emotions too. _Trust is when you don't know for sure that someone will catch you when you fall, but you let yourself fall anyway_, he'd written, to see if his mother would agree with his definition, and a long paragraph on friendship had followed.

_I'm still not sure about friendship. It seems to be a complicated mixture of things, as far as I can make it out. Hermione said it was caring about people, and sharing experiences with them, and other things like trust and loyalty and, but I know it's more complicated than that. The other night I was sitting in the Slytherin common room, watching groups of friends talking and trying to work out how it all fits together. It doesn't seem to be anything I can see or hear or puzzle out. Will I have to wait until I feel it for myself? And if so, how will I know when I come across it?_

_You said you loved me, but I don't understand that either. There's so much I don't understand._

Folding his letter in half, he crossed the empty Slytherin dormitory to the window, where Raphael was waiting to take his letter back to the Manor. He smiled at the owl as she affectionately nipped the back of his hand, then tied the letter to her leg – it returned to the false letter as soon as it left his hands - and sent her flying.

The Slytherin common room was actually beneath the lake, but the dormitories had magical windows to let fresh air and sunlight in. A changing view was provided by similar spells to those that caused the ceiling of the Great Hall to mimic the outside sky, and something in the same vein as a Portkey allowed all owls flying through the windows to emerge safely above ground. In Draco's first year, Goyle had jumped through one of the windows on a dare, and come out five feet above the ground in a secluded part of he school lawns.

He watched Raphael flying away, then turned and headed for the door to the common room, pushing it lightly open with one touch of a graceful hand. The empty dormitory was peaceful and quiet, but something in him was making him want to be around people, even if he would be treated as little more than a shadow. And besides, he could watch people, see if he could figure out that elusive bond that defined friendship.

The Slytherin common room was quiet, as usual. Conversations were held in soft voices, all words weighed carefully. At the top of the hierarchy, the merest alteration in tone or phrasing could change the meaning of a sentence completely; their dealings could be like a game of chess played with subtleties and subtexts. At the other end, the neutrals and the outcasts, conversation was free and easy, closeted away in one dark corner of the common room. These were the people who were properly friends; so he sat down a little way from them and watched.

Ellen seemed to be a definite part of their group now, sitting amongst them in the common room and at mealtimes, chattering and laughing with them. Was she friends with them? Draco wondered what possible motivation they could have for accepting her - it would only damage their own reputations further and could bring them into danger. There was no logical reason why, unless they were planning to manipulate her and use her to their own benefit, so Draco concluded it must be an emotional reason. Compassion? Did they pity her, want to help her? It was possible.

Ellen glanced up, noticing Draco's scrutiny, and she smiled widely when she realised he was looking at her. She turned to her group, said something, nodded to someone's reply, then turned and hurried over to Draco.

He hadn't been expecting that, and would have been worried what the other Slytherins would think before he remembered that he couldn't easily sink any lower in their esteem.

'Hi Draco,' beamed the Muggleborn, sitting down beside him 'how are you? You definitely_ look_ happy…'

'I do?' he asked, wondering what on earth he was going to reply. He didn't _know_ how he was. 'I'm… fine. Is there a reason you came over here, or is this just a random social call?'

'_You_ were staring at _me_,' she reminded him, twisting a piece of her hair between her fingers. 'And, well, you did help me out with those third-years, so I thought I should help you.'

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. 'And precisely what can you help me with? We've been through this before.'

'And I answered you before. You don't have any friends.' Ellen said simply.

It was true, but not for the reasons she thought. He had no friends because he didn't know how to have them. Hermione was friends with him, but he wasn't friends with her, simply because he didn't understand friendship yet.

'And why would I want to be friends with a scrawny first year anyway?' he asked, drawling, reassuming something of his old role again to defend himself against the situation he didn't know, as a human, how to deal with.

Ellen laughed. 'I'm not scrawny!' she protested. 'I'm not even that thin. And you want to be friends with me because you don't have anyone else, and everyone needs a friend. Someone to help them, someone to talk to…'

Draco frowned. 'Why do you want to be my friend?'

She met his eyes then, and Draco, trained at reading people, could see the stark honesty in her pale blue eyes. 'Because I'm really grateful to you for stopping those third-years,' she said. 'Because you need someone and I want to help you. And I guess I'm hoping you might protect me again. I need as many people as I can…'

She'd suggested this before, and he'd refused. Things were different now. He'd probably end up helping her out of compassion, so he might as well get something out of it, Draco reasoned. It might help him understand friendship. And perhaps one of those emotions, formless and vague as a wisp as smoke but powerful as a thunderstorm, made him _want_ to accept.

'Maybe,' Draco said, and got casually to his feet. 'I'll think about it.'

'Where are you going?' Ellen called after him as he strode towards the common room's exit.

'For a walk.'

* * *

He hadn't known why he wanted a walk, just that he wanted one. Perhaps the impulse was to get away from Ellen and her questions, or to get away from the crowded common room, or just to be on his own for a while, uninterrupted while he sorted his thoughts into order.

If it was this he was seeking, he would be disappointed; he hadn't walked more than a few metres in solitude before he rounded a corner and almost bumped into someone.

'Sorry… er, Professor,' he said, recognising the man as that year's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

'It was as much my fault as yours,' the man said simply, 'should have been watching where I was going…' He looked at Draco properly, and frowned. 'Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?'

Draco simply nodded. 'Draco Malfoy,' he clarified.

'Professor Delaney,' the man replied with a frown, his dark brown eyes thoughtful. 'I heard from Dumbledore about your recent change of… affiliation. I assume your housemates are not best pleased?'

Draco lied, perhaps by instinct, perhaps by some ingrained habit that he'd learned as a Fallen: never trust someone you don't know with information. 'Affiliation is not that important,' he said. 'Some will be displeased, but for the most part no one really cares…'

Delaney cut him off with a wry half-smile. 'I _was_ a Slytherin myself; I know how the system works,' he said simply. 'There are people of all affiliations, but the ones affiliated with the Dark Lord are in control, while those with other affiliations hide in the shadows.'

Caught out, Draco paused for a moment, surveying the other man's expression: set into a politely questioning expression with a hint of something like concern in the eyes, and something else beyond that… 'Perhaps hiding in the shadows suits me,' Draco said, his tone guarded. 'Being in the good graces of the Slytherins isn't everything, Professor.'

A thoughtful, preoccupied look came over Delaney's face, and for a moment, in the darkness of the dungeon, Draco could have sworn that the man's irises had merged with the pupil, the same dark tone and colour, and it made something coil up inside him, cold as frost on glass, and whisper to his heart in words the texture of the night.

'Just remember, if you ever need any help, Draco, my door is not only open to students of Defence,' said Delaney, before parting with a nod and stalking past him, down the corridors into darkness with his robes swirling over the stones.

Frowning, Draco watched him leave.

* * *

**A/N: **And I'm not saying _anything_… except I'm very much looking forward to your reviews!

**Amicitia, **the title of this chapter and also the Gryffindor password, is an interesting word in Latin. It can mean 'friendship' or 'alliance', or any shade of grey in between. I found it suitable because of the nature of Draco and Hermione's relationship; they definitely have an alliance with regards to Hermione helping Draco, and they have some shade of friendship, though until Draco can get his head round friendship things are a little blurry. It also works for Draco and Ellen; she's proposing an alliance which involves her offering her friendship. The lines are blurred already… And there's other friendship/alliances all over the place, of course.

Speaking of friendship, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Lucy. She's been an amazing friend through five years of good and bad, high and low, tears and laughter, and today was our last day in the same school. Lucy, you're a fab friend and I'm honoured to have spent these past five years with you. Couldn't have asked for anyone better. Hugs, chocolates, and my impression of an amoebic fish-tank alarm-clock (don't ask.)

See you in two Friday's time with the Occlumency lesson, and I can promise that's going to be a good one. Until then, review, or I'll tell Ginny you were bullying the Muggleborns and send her to get you in the middle of the night.


	25. Memories

**Chapter 24: Memories**

**Disclaimer:** Due to a combination of sugar, caffeine and insomnia, I feel daring. So I'm not going to say that I don't own Harry Potter or any of the other related things in this story… oh, _drat_.

**Thanks for 782 reviews goes to: **draconas, toothpicks, jules37, angela, ToMLuVa06, FlexiLexi, relena33, Storm079, Madam Midnight, Go10, slytherinpunk, RedWitch1, brettley, Saraiyu, SycoCallie, PhAnToM-ChiK, ToOtHpIcK, Crystalized Snow, Morgana1616, Ellie, lark277, Katharina, Rebecca15, MsLessa, the road to damascus, willowfairy, Slytheravengryffinpuff, citcat299, DeLany, Pheonix, Plaidly Lush (x2), PinkTribeChick, finally-defeated, BlueM'Mz, Emily, liar, angeli1angeli, heavengurl899 (x3), Lady Mariel, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-i-want-this-to-be-the-longest-author-name-ever-thank-you-very-much

**A/N:** I'm back from the boating holiday! Don't worry, it was profitably spent driving the boat (with both my parents as backseat-sailors), reading OOTP, planning my other little holiday project, and relaxing. Of course, as soon as I came back, I was lumbered with a cold, insomnia and a family argument, so it's been a tough week for writing. Apologies for anything that isn't up to scratch – I'm always paranoid about that, though my betae assure me I'm fine.

Insomnia is a great thing for leaving you with nothing to say, isn't it? I've also been very bad with replying to e-mails, which I apologise for – rather a lot of you e-mailed my last week, including what must be my longest review ever, and I still need to reply to them! Thanks a thousand times to all my reviewers: you must be doing something right, if you can inspire me to write when I'm sneezing all over the place and exhausted! Love to you all. Enjoy!

* * *

_Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it._

**_Michel de Montaigne, (1533-1592)_**

* * *

The meagre hours spent with his friends had flown past with ridiculous speed, as though someone had swooped down on a Firebolt and snatched the time from Harry's hands. And perhaps, if you could move time around like sand on a beach, they'd dropped it here, in the strangely silent corridors with their ominously flickering torches.

How long could it take to get to Snape's office? His watch said it had only been ten minutes since he left the common room behind, but it felt like an unbridgeable eternity had passed between _then_ and _now_.

_Get it over with_, he thought as he turned the final corner, Snape's office door appearing a few metres away, large and imposing. And then, as if time had gotten bored with going slowly, he was standing in front of the door in what felt like a heartbeat's space, staring at the wood.

Snape was going to be _horrible_. Harry had no idea how he was going to try to calm himself, to attain the blankness needed for Occlumency. He was going to go in there and be completely unprotected, completely vulnerable to Snape's attacks, and the last thing he wanted to do was relive any of the things in his memory, especially not with Snape there. His memories were private…

_Just get it over with._

With some kind of huge, cold weight settling itself inside his ribcage, Harry knocked on the door.

'Enter.'

The word was snapped; harsh and bitter, and Harry couldn't stop himself wincing as his hand fell to the doorknob. If Snape was that angry before the lesson had even started, he had no hope.

The room was still as grim and forbidding as he remembered it. The shelves around the walls were still lined with their murky jars of ingredients; the glass made grey and dirty under layers of dust. There wasn't enough light, leaving the edges and corners of the office cloaked in secretive black shadows out of which anything might appear; while what little light there was seemed pale and devoid of warmth, illuminating but not cheering.

Snape was behind his desk, holding a midnight-black quill in one hand with a stack of parchment before him, obviously marking homework. 'You're late,' he accused Harry, in a voice that could have frozen hellfire.

He was two minutes early.

'Sorry, Professor,' Harry muttered, glancing at the floor, because Snape's glare carried the undiluted venom of his bitterness and loathing for James Potter's son. But then again, Harry reminded himself; in a matter of minutes Snape would be attacking his mind again, and if he couldn't even meet the professor's eyes now, what hope did he have to fight against him then?

So he looked up, and met the dark, angry eyes with what he hoped was a calm emerald stare, and after a few seconds Snape put his quill down, sealed his inkpot, and got to his feet.

_Stay calm_, Harry instructed himself as Snape strode round to face him. Harry tried to breathe more slowly, to stop his heart thudding in his chest, to calm the tumult of twisting fear in his chest. _Just stay calm_…

Snape didn't bother giving him a warning. '_Leglimens!_'

It was a violent attack, and before Harry could even begin to retaliate the office had vanished. He was back at the Dursleys, with Uncle Vernon slamming the door of his cupboard shut and turning the key… in Umbridge's office with the quill cutting into the back of his hand… at the Dursleys' again, lying on his bed and wishing Sirius were still alive, and then, with a burst of pain so strong it made him gasp, back in the Department of Mysteries, watching Bellatrix's curse hit Sirius, watching him fall backwards, through the veil, gone forever…

'SIRIUS!'

And back to Snape's office, kneeling on the floor and gasping in air as though he'd just run a marathon. His glasses had fallen off, turning Snape's face into a pale oval blur, the eyes and nose and mouth almost distinguishable, but the expression impossible to read.

He closed his eyes, trying to get his breath back, trying to pull himself together. He would not break down in front of Snape. Never. It was hard, feeling the pain and the guilt and the loss of Sirius' death pounding through him, tearing at him, but he tried.

'Your glasses, Potter.'

Harry opened his eyes and looked up to see Snape's hand extended to him, holding out his vaguely recognisable glasses. 'Thanks,' Harry muttered, reaching out to take them and trying to stop the image of Sirius' death from flickering again and again across his inner vision, each time bringing with it a vicious stab of pain.

He pushed his glasses back onto his nose, forcing himself to focus on the shape of them, the smooth Muggle plastic of the frames, the way they rested lightly on his nose and the back of his ears, because if he concentrated on something else hard enough he could force the memories out of his mind.

Standing, he took a sharp breath and forced himself to meet Snape's glaze, to show that whatever his Potions professor thought, he wasn't weak, he wouldn't break. Snape was regarding him with a frown, the same kind of expression he wore when carefully measuring some ingredient for a potion, and Harry realised that Snape was evaluating him. Determined not to be found lacking, he raised his chin and stared back.

After a moment, Snape gave him a cursory nod, though his face betrayed no hint of what he was thinking. 'Have you collected yourself, Potter?'

'Yes,' Harry said shortly.

Snape raised his wand, and Harry had a half-second more to brace himself before Snape cried, 'Leglimens!'

The office wavered before him for a heartbeat, and then he was submerged under cool water, breathing through gills, and his heart thudding in he chest as he searched for his best friend… he was in the Chamber of Secrets, with Ginny lying limp and lifeless on the stone and a Basilisk approaching… he was back in Snape's office, a year ago, and Snape was raising his wand…

And back to the real office. Harry realised he'd managed to remain standing that time, though Snape was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Harry stared back defiantly. Had that last vision surprised Snape, seeing that these Occlumency lessons ranked in the list of Harry's worst memories? _He shouldn't_, Harry thought, gripping his wand tightly as a sudden vehement fire rushed through him, _he's seen enough of my memories to know this can't be fun for me…_

'Potter, you will never learn Occlumency if you don't make more of an effort,' Snape said simply. His tone was as neutral as it could be, but his comment still annoyed Harry.

'I _am_ trying,' he protested, 'but…'

'No, you are not.' Snape cut in flatly, this time carrying a little more bitterness. 'I have told you before, Potter; to block an attack, you need to be calm; you need to be able to block those memories completely. Collect yourself, and we shall try again.'

Snape's acidic tone seemed to grate at Harry's nerves: he bit the inside of his cheek as the other man spoke. He could still feel the residual pain from his memories swirling through him like water, boiling water that left his insides raw, to add to the vicious, tearing pain that was Sirius' death, the heavy sense of guilt. Calmness? Blocking these memories? He could just have easily have scooped the stars from the sky and used them as diamonds.

'It's rather hard to be calm when someone who hates you is prying through your memories, _sir_,' Harry spat bitterly.

Snape fixed him with a dangerous glare. 'Then you should be thankful I am not the Dark Lord,' he said, 'I assure you that he hates you far more than I ever will. Potter, _calm yourself_.'

That wasn't going to happen; not with this jumble of feelings tangling around each other inside him, long-forgotten fears and pains and hatreds mingling with fresher guilt and loss. Harry took a deep breath, then another, which only served to make the pain worse.

'I'm calm,' he lied.

Snape raised his wand. 'Leglimens.'

Seven, and running away from Dudley and his gang… watching Voldemort rise out of the cauldron… Ron refusing to speak to him in fourth year… Quirrel drinking from the unicorn… in Snape's Pensieve, watching his father acting like an arrogant bully…

The spell broke sharply, and Harry was facing Snape, both of them breathing too hard and too fast and with an anger that was almost solid, crystallising out of the air between them.

'You are not _trying_.' Snape hissed. 'If anything, you are getting worse.'

Harry glared back defiantly. 'How am I supposed to be calm when…'

'When you're facing the Dark Lord and about to be killed at any moment?' Snape cut in sharply. 'If you cannot be calm here and now, you have no hope of being calm _then_!'

There was a sharp silence. Harry had heard people describing a tense atmosphere as _so thick you could cut it with a knife_, but his atmosphere _was_ knives, razor-edged and cutting and dangerous.

'Do I need to clarify what that will mean, Potter?' Snape asked coldly. 'If you cannot control your emotions then…'

'I can't just stop myself from feeling things!' Harry exploded. 'I can't _do_ that, don't you think I've been _trying_ to do that all summer?'

'You do not need cease all feeling, Potter, you merely need to remain calm, which you are not doing.'

Fury burned coldly in Harry's chest, 'Yeah, well how am I supposed to do that when Voldemort-' Snape frowned, '-is trying to _kill_ me and I keep remembering Sirius…'

Harry cut himself off in mid-sentence, now angry with himself as well for mentioning that in front of Snape.

'You are not the only one with less-than-pleasant memories, Potter,' Snape snarled viciously. 'Other people can keep their emotions under control, and I expect no less of you. Until you manage that, you will be utterly defenceless against the Dark Lord. Are you such a self-centred, arrogant little boy that you don't see what the consequences of that will be?'

'I'll die,' Harry said simply, feeling like he couldn't care less at that moment, but his answer seemed to infuriate Snape even more.

'And is your life the be-all and end-all of this war?' Snape spat. 'Potter, if you die, if you are incapable of defeating him, the Dark Lord will _win_. It might take him a year, or a decade, or a century after killing you, but he will turn this world into what he desires. His will be a reign of terror the likes of which this earth has never _seen_ before! You cannot imagine the horrors he would perpetuate, the murders and tortures he would perform… and all you can do is snivel about your own pathetic little life.'

Snape looked at Harry as though he was something slimy, something disgusting, and Harry spoke up. 'I know I have to kill Voldemort,' he said, 'I know that, and I know what will happen if I don't, but _I can't just_…'

'Then I suggest you learn, and quickly,' Snape snapped, 'because if you don't, Potter, you will die at Voldemort's hands, and you will be guilty of failing to prevent those deaths and tortures, just as you are guilty of causing Black's death now because of your reckless impulsiveness!'

Harry gasped, paling suddenly, and stepped backwards as though he'd just been slapped in the face.

'Don't…' he began, and his voice was shaking with either pain or anger or both, 'don't you _ever_ bring up Sirius…'

'I shall mention whomever I want,' Snape said harshly, 'if it will get the importance of these lessons firmly into your idiotic brain.'

'I know they're important,' Harry said quietly, though all he wanted to do was yell and scream and shout at Snape for thinking he didn't know how important this was, for thinking he wasn't trying when all he'd done for the past few weeks was try to push the pain away. He would have shouted, too, but any kind of coherent words were lost beneath that raw ache of pain, the old scars from memories half-forgotten, the new and fresh waves of misery from more recent memories that hung in his mind as vividly as blood. Beneath all that was a river of rage at Snape, like boiling acid in his blood, and guilt like a heavy sickness over Sirius and the possible future deaths of thousands, and a myriad other tangled feelings without names that coiled around his heart and throttled it until he couldn't think straight, let alone form a coherent sentence.

On one of the shelves behind him, a mercifully empty glass jar shattered without warning, littering the shadows with broken stars that glinted in the torchlight. Snape, already looking murderous, seemed even angrier.

'Just _go_, Potter,' he spat. 'There are only five minutes left in this session anyway, not one of which could be profitably used with you in this state. Get out, and if you make no improvement next week…'

The threat was left hanging. Harry had already gone.

* * *

'Bloody Snape,' Ginny muttered as she passed through the Entrance Hall. She was firmly convinced that the embarrassment of being caught kissing by him in the first place was punishment enough; and now she'd have to spend an evening cleaning out cauldrons or something equally disgusting. And all for kissing Dean in an empty classroom!

Ginny had heard Dean remark that he thought Snape was just jealous and bitter because he didn't have anyone to kiss. She thought it was a very probable suggestion.

Oh well. At least in an hour it'd all be over, and she could go back to the Gryffindor common room and relax. Perhaps on the way back, she'd sneak down to the kitchens and ask the house elves for some Butterbeer, or - even better – hot chocolate. With copious amounts of cream and marshmallows on top. And some fudge sauce dribbled over the cream. That was how hot chocolate was _supposed_ to be.

Perhaps if she focused on hot chocolate throughout her detention, it'd stop the cauldrons smelling quite so badly. Ginny resolved to try this, turned the corner and almost tripped over Harry.

He was sitting with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out across the floor, arms folded across his chest, staring at a random point as though he were willing it to catch on fire.

Occlumency, Ginny realised. She had known Harry had his lesson tonight, but there were so many winding passages through the dungeons that she hadn't expected to run into him. Unless, of course, he was sitting on the ground at the end of the corridor that led to Snape's office.

'Harry?' she asked, not sure if he'd noticed her, and he glanced up, momentarily confused.

'Oh. Hi,' he said, by way of greeting, and his eyes dropped to the floor with a sigh. 'Snape's in his office.'

Ginny glanced down the corridor to the door, then glanced back to Harry again. 'I've got five minutes,' she lied, before stepping over Harry's legs and sitting down beside him with her legs tucked underneath her. 'I assume Snape was a bit of a git?'

Harry snorted. 'That's an understatement,' he said semi-casually, but the undertones of anger in his voice were evident.

'What happened? Did you see…' She sought for the best phrasing. 'What happened in the Department of Ministries?'

'Yeah, but that wasn't… I mean, I'm used to that. To remembering it. It was more that he acted like I… like I don't know how important this is.' Harry said bitterly. 'I know it's important! I know I have to…'

He broke off suddenly, with a sidelong glance to Ginny, who had been sitting quietly and listening. He looked evasive, and weary, and angry, and hurt.

'And… I don't want to talk about it. Not now. I…' He raised a hand to his face. 'I can't even think straight right now, let alone talk. Sorry, Ginny…'

'It's okay,' she said, and after a heartbeat's deliberation she reached up and pulled his hand away from his face, gave it a gentle squeeze, and dropped it. It wasn't okay, really; she wanted to know what had happened. But if Harry didn't want to tell her, well, cajoling and pleading would only make him more upset. Later, when he wasn't in such a state, she'd ask him – or get the story off Hermione and Ron if they heard it first. 'Are you going back to the common room, then?'

He shook his head. 'It's a perfectly nice corridor,' he said. 'And there's too many people in there.'

'Well, it won't be a perfectly nice corridor when one of the Slytherins walks down it and finds you sitting here,' Ginny remarked, getting to her feet. 'I think one of these doors…'

She selected one of the doors with a frown and cautiously opened it. Inside was an empty classroom, all its furniture cleaned away centuries ago to leave nothing but cool grey stone.

Harry followed her in. 'More peaceful than the corridor,' Ginny remarked, 'though you'd better lock the door, I bet this is a prime Slytherin kissing spot.'

He snorted. 'Thanks,' he said, and settled down again, leaning against one wall, topping his head back and closing his eyes.

Ginny glanced down the corridor to Snape's office door. She was at least ten minutes late; he would be furious. And she didn't want to scrub out cauldrons or chop frogs legs or whatever horrid punishment he had in store for her. And she didn't want to leave Harry.

She closed the door and muttered a locking charm, then sat down next to Harry. He opened his eyes; strangely colourful in the empty grey room.

'Don't you have detention?' he asked with a frown.

Ginny gave a casual shrug. 'I don't care. Unless you'd rather I went?'

Harry appeared to consider this. 'You can stay, I guess,' he said, and Ginny smiled.

They passed a companionable five minutes in silence, with Harry's knees drawn up to his chest and his forehead resting atop them, while Ginny sat beside him and wondered if he was okay. He could be crying, very quietly, and she wouldn't have been able to tell. Or sleeping. She knew he was hurting; that much was obvious.

'Harry?' she asked tentatively, but he seemed not to notice. He wasn't asleep; his breathing was too quick and rapid for that. Somewhere inside himself, then: somewhere where the outside world faded away and left you trapped in your own mind, your own memories. She remembered that from her first year, when Harry had saved her from the Chamber and she'd had to deal with the fact that she'd almost murdered people.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand and put it on his shoulder, hoping it would at least offer some small comfort.

A few minutes passed in this way, until the heard a door open in the distance and the sound of footsteps on stone. 'Weasley?' It was Snape, and true to her predictions, he sounded furious.

'Weasley!'

Harry was more important. She didn't move.

Snape's footsteps stalked down the corridor, and she heard him trying other doors, looking in other rooms. Why wasn't he looking for her in Gryffindor? He must have heard her voice before, speaking to Harry, she realised. If so, why hadn't he come looking for her immediately?

The doorhandle rattled, and Snape hissed something under his breath from outside. Ginny's heart sank, and she prepared for a furious rant by Snape. He'd know the countercharm to open the door, and then it was anger and scrubbing cauldrons…

The door flew open, and she gave Snape the best glare she had as he stalked into the room, sweeping his gaze over the inhabitants. He raised an eyebrow when he saw her with Harry.

'Your detention, Miss Weasley?' he asked, his tones icy.

'I felt my friend's well-being was more important,' she said defiantly. If she was getting in trouble anyway, she wasn't going to back down.

Snape frowned at her, then his gaze slid to Harry. 'I suppose,' he said after a moment's pause, his voice dry and acidic, 'that comforting Potter is a cruel enough detention for anyone. Though in future, kindly remember that attending a detention can be an intelligent idea if you wish to keep the rest of your week to yourself.'

And with that he stalked back to his office, leaving a very surprised Ginny behind him.

* * *

**A/N: **Apologies for not having any Draco in there; but don't worry, I'll make sure to include him next chapter. Now, I propose we conduct a scientific experiment: do reviews cure insomnia? Scientifically speaking, good reviews should make me happy, leading to me relaxing and getting a better night's sleep. I shall keep a chart of how many reviews I get each day, and how many hours I sleep that night, and we shall see if there's a correlation. So review, in the name of science!


	26. Genesis and Revelations

**Chapter 25: Genesis and Revelations**

**Disclaimer:** Sometimes I think these things exist as an insult to reader's intelligence. After all, how many people are going to think that I own Harry Potter? Precisely zero. But I don't, just in case you were wondering.

**Thanks for 827 reviews goes to: **samhaincat, foxer, Go10, ToOtHpIcK, what a wonderful world, OXBglider, Crystalised Snow, Kunochi, draconas, Slytherravengryffinpuff, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-I-want-this-to-be-the-longest-author-name-ever-thank-you-very-much, Pheonix, Catalina, RedWitch1, Lady Mariel. Plaidly Lush, rogue solus, angeli1angeli, Saraiyu, jules37, blackonyx, Hidden Relevance, willowfairy, brettley, citcat299, KrystyWroth, Madam Midnight, LoniGirl, hjl, starr talenyn (x2), Storm079, Emily, SycoCallie, Saotoshi (x2), Sparkling Cherries, ablakevh, finally-defeated, wcoast-girl, Flexi Lexi.

**A/N:** I hate hot weather. Just thought you should know. We should have the long holidays in winter when I can actually think, rather than in boiling summer. And it should snow more too. Snow is good.

The results of my do-reviews-affect-insomnia? experiment are done. And they show absolutely no correlation at all. If anyone's interested: 0 reviews – g hours, 18 reviews – 8 hours 20 mins, 12 reviews – 5 hours 13 mins, 15 reviews - 7 hours 21 mins, 4 reviews - 6 hours 24 mins, 1 review - 8 hours 10 mins, 1 review - 5 hours 19 mins. This shows that, not only is there no correlation between reviews and insomnia, but also that I really don't get enough sleep.

A massive thanks as usual go to all my fantastic reviewers! You keep me going, even when the air's so stuffy I can hardly breathe, I've not eaten all day, my mind's refusing to focus and the Muses aren't cooperating. Love to you all.

On that topic, I'd like to draw your attention to a decidedly bizarre possibly-psychic occurrence; that of starr talenyn's drawing: "_i was drawing the other day, and my Draco decided he wanted wings, and then there was Rita the mirror in a grey room, and another draco in the mirror that was actually smiling, without wings... they kind of took control... so, yes, that picture is from your story, i really hope you don't mind!"_ (Of course I don't mind! Fanart is always good.) The oddly psychic thing is that the exact same picture – give or take a few details – has been batting round my head, moaning piteously at my dire drawing abilities, since I first started planning the story. Odd, no? (and if you ever manage to scan it in, starr, send it to me with all due speed!)

And with that, onto the story. Enjoy!

* * *

_There is no use worrying about things over which you have no control, and if you have control, you can do something about them instead of worrying_

**_-Stanley C. Allyn_**

* * *

'What?' Ron asked incredulously. 'That greasy git _let_ you stay there?'

Ginny simply nodded, throwing a glance in the direction of the staircase leading to the boy's dormitories. Most of the Gryffindors had already trickled through the common room on their way to a leisurely Saturday morning breakfast; Seamus, who had passed through fifteen minutes ago, had informed them that Harry appeared to be having a lie in.  
  
At this point, Dean had given up on waiting with his girlfriend and joined Seamus for breakfast, although to be fair, his stomach had been rumbling loudly since he'd got up, and the only thing that had prevented Ron from joining his roommates had been a dark glare from Hermione.

It had, however, given them a timely opportunity to discuss Harry's Occlumency lesson of the previous night.

'Why did Snape let you stay?' Hermione asked, seemingly puzzled. 'You had detention, and it's not as if he likes you…'

'Definitely not after what I did with the Permanent Dye Potion,' Ginny mused. 'It was just a shame it didn't take longer for them to fix Willis' hair... but obviously I regret doing that very much,' she added hastily, seeing Hermione's look of disapproval. 'And since it was at the end of last year, there's very little point discussing it, especially not when we have odd, greasy Potion teachers to discuss. Ron?'

'What?' Ron asked.

'Why do you think Snape didn't drag me away and force me to clean cauldrons?' Ginny asked patiently.

Her brother shrugged. 'I've no idea. How am I supposed to know what goes on in Snape's twisted mind?'

'There's not much point discussing it.' Hermione cut in. 'There could be a hundred reasons, and we'd never know which was right. We should stay on topic. What happened after that, Ginny?'

'A hundred reasons? I can't think of _one_,' Ron muttered, but Ginny was beginning her story again.

'Not very much, actually. He didn't say anything, just… sat there, really.' Ginny continued. 'I kept wondering if he'd gone to sleep – do you know how hard it is to check if someone's asleep without them noticing? – but he was awake, or at least I think he was.'

'And he didn't say anything?' Hermione asked, looking worried.

Ginny shook her head. 'Not until it got really late, and he said, 'We ought to get back to Gryffindor Tower now.' That was all.'

'Do you think he's okay?' Ron asked. 'I mean, was he really upset or anything?'

'Of course he was upset, he had _Snape_ poking around his head,' Ginny chastised him. 'And Snape's awful at the best of times. It wouldn't be so bad if it was actually someone _nice_ teaching him…' She sighed irritably.

'Why can't Dumbledore just get someone else to teach Harry?' Ron asked. 'I mean, he and Snape aren't the only two Legli-thingies in the whole world…'

'Yes, but they're the only two _Leglimens_ who are also members of the Order,' Hermione pointed out. 'And Dumbledore can't trust anyone who isn't in the Order with something so-'

'Hey,' interrupted a soft voice, and they all looked up to see Harry standing on the bottom step of the stairs, looking tired but otherwise okay. Hermione beamed.

'Hey, Harry. Are you hungry? We haven't had breakfast yet, but they should still be serving it in the Great Hall…'

'Breakfast sounds good,' Harry said, stifling a small yawn. He leant against the wall, giving his friends a weak kind of half-smile, his eyes seeming a deeper green than usual. 'I know you were talking about me, by the way,' he added, quite calmly, as if he didn't really care one way or the other.

'We were worried,' Hermione said simply. 'You didn't say anything when you got back…'

'I know,' Harry said, 'I'm fine.'

Ron was frowning, 'Did Snape-'

'I'm fine,' Harry repeated again, cutting Ron off. Hermione and Ginny exchanged glances. 'I'm just hungry. Shall we go eat?'

Ron nodded and got to his feet, followed by Hermione and Ginny, then headed for the portrait hole, greeting the Fat Lady on his way out, as did Hermione. Ginny was about to climb through when she felt a hand on her arm; she turned around and saw Harry.

He had an odd kind of look on his face that couldn't really be defined; like a discordant note in a song, or a pair of clashing colours, or one of those very sharp, very straight cuts that never seemed to heal properly. His eyes were too green, his skin too pale and his hair too dark, too messy, and she felt almost afraid.

'Thanks,' he said, 'for last night,' and let go of her arm, looking away.

'You're welcome,' she said, not knowing what else to say, and scrambled after Ron and Hermione.

* * *

'You seem preoccupied.'

Hermione glanced up guiltily at the sound of the casual drawl, and realised she _had _been preoccupied – the conversation has lapsed for several minutes and her mind had wandered back to Harry.

He didn't seem upset, but he'd been unusually quiet. Not the kind of quiet she was used to seeing from him, either. She was used to him drifting off, forgetting all about his surroundings, just sitting there with his eyes unfocused and inattentive. Today he'd been fully aware of everything around him, just… not speaking. She knew he'd been listening, because sometimes when they'd been in the middle of a conversation he'd unexpectedly contribute a few sentences which showed he knew what they were talking about.

'I guess I am a little…' she replied, giving Draco a weak smile. 'Sorry, I shouldn't be…'

'I don't mind,' he said, and leant back in his chair, examining her thoughtfully, twirling his quill in his fingers. It made her shiver. His manner came too close to her picture of an emotionless Fallen – his grey eyes cold and narrowed slightly in calculation, as though assessing her personality, her strengths and weaknesses, with no attention at all paid to the fact that she was a human being. Hermione knew that Draco didn't really think like that, but sometimes she wondered how much of his human side was actually human.

'What were you preoccupied with?' he asked.

She couldn't tell him: only Harry's close friends knew about Occlumency, and Draco was by no means a close friend of Harry's. Besides, Harry's life was his own business, and she wasn't about to go talking about it to his enemy, just as she wouldn't divulge Draco's secrets to Harry.

'My friends,' she said casually.

He leant forwards, elbows on the table, eyes almost seeming to glitter with something she couldn't name. 'You looked… worried,' he said, choosing his phrasing carefully.

She shrugged. 'I don't exactly have the most worry-free set of friends.'

He tilted his head to one side. 'What happened?'

'Nothing,' she said evasively, 'just… normal everyday stuff.'

'And 'normal everyday stuff' has you so preoccupied?' Draco asked with a triumphant half-smirk. 'You need to work on inventing decent lies. I know _something's_ happened…'

'Which I'm not telling you about,' she said firmly.

His expression could only be described as a pout; Hermione was fairly sure he was faking it, although it was rather amusing. 'Why not?' he asked.

'For the same reason I don't go telling Harry and Ron about the fact that you're half-Fallen,' she said simply. This appeared to sober Draco immediately.

'Alright, I suppose,' he said, and didn't press for more. Hermione couldn't think of a suitable reply to this, and the conversation lapsed into a slightly awkward pause.

'Do you worry about me when you're with them?'

He was leaning back in his seat, regarding her curiously, and she couldn't tell at all what he was thinking beyond that. 'Why do you ask?' she queried, her tone more guarded than she meant it to be.

If she was being honest with herself, she did worry about him. Not as much as she worried about Harry; because Draco's problems at least had a solution she could help with, while she could do nothing for Harry except be there when he needed her, encourage him to talk…

Draco shrugged; an elegant motion. 'I just… wanted to know, I suppose,' he said. 'Would that be…?'

'Curiosity?'

'Or being inquisitive, or prying, or something like that.' He frowned. 'It's quite difficult to tell.'

'Probably curiosity,' Hermione said. There was a pause.

'So, do you?' Draco pressed.

'Worry about you?' Hermione paused, wondering how honest she should be. 'I guess I do…' He was smiling. She would never have thought, before everything changed, that she'd ever see Draco Malfoy smile like this. It was a very real smile. Almost – and it felt very odd to be thinking that about _him_ – like a baby's smile. Almost. It wasn't the chuckling grin she'd seen her baby cousins wearing, wide with laughter, but it had something of the same quality to it. It must, she concluded, have something to do with just beginning to feel things.

An interesting idea, really; though his situation wasn't really comparable to an infant's. He did, after all, have the intellectual capacity of a sixteen (seventeen? She didn't know when his birthday was) year old, and that meant he had all the usual teenage emotions all at once. A baby wouldn't feel compassion, for instance, not until it was older.

'Preoccupied again?'

Hermione shook herself out of her thoughts. 'Yes, but with you this time,' she informed him with a small smile.

'Why?' he asked immediately. 'I mean, I know why _generally_,' he clarified, waving a careless hand as if to encompass the entire range of human emotions, half-Fallens, Slytherins, spies and Voldemort, 'but is there any _specific_ reason why?'

She was not about to tell him that she'd been contemplating his smile. 'Not really, just general things. I don't really know very much about Fallens...'

He frowned. 'That's right. I'd forgotten… you haven't heard anything since that dratted mirror told you about it,' he said. 'And she didn't exactly go into detail…'

'Considering we have…' Hermione searched for the right word. She couldn't really use friendship, since Draco was incapable of it, but a truce or an arrangement seemed too formal…

'An understanding?'

Close enough. 'Yes. I'd be interested in knowing more, but only if you want to tell me…'

It wasn't just a lie or an evasion; Hermione realised she genuinely did want to know more. It could make it easier to understand Draco, and even if it didn't, it was _knowledge,_ and not only that, but _rare_ knowledge.

He eyes her appraisingly. 'You do realise that not even all the members of the Order know about half-Fallens, don't you?'

'Well, I did say only if you wanted to…' Hermione said, feeling a little regretful, but Draco leant back in his chair, looking at a point somewhere above her head.

'I haven't a clue whether I want to,' he said, 'but it's probably logical to tell you, and I don't have any bad feelings about the idea of telling you, so…' He shrugged. 'My mother probably knows more than I do, so if you want the really detailed information…'

'Your mother?' Hermione asked. 'Isn't she human?'

'Yes,' Draco said. 'Think about the family tree. At every generation, a half-Fallen will have married a human to produce a half-Fallen child-'

Hermione interrupted. 'Wouldn't they become progressively less Fallen and more human as time goes on?' she asked.

'No… It's to do with genetics and things. Something to do with chromosomes…' He waved a hand dismissively. 'This is one of the detailed bits you'd have to ask my mother about. Basically, there's an equal chance of the child of a half-Fallen and human being one or the other, but there is a potion that can ensure a half-Fallen birth. Again, you'd have to ask her.' He paused for a moment.

'Anyway, each half-Fallen has to marry a human to produce a half-Fallen child. The human partners have been keeping books of useful information - diaries, scientific information about half-Fallens, useful spells, some historical information, that kind of thing. Obviously, the earliest ones have been translated about fifty times, and some of them are too damaged to read any more.'

'Fifty times?' Hermione asked. 'How far back do these records go?'

'I never asked,' Draco shrugged. 'Back to the first half-Fallens, I think…'

Hermione gaped at him. 'But that was around the time of the first humans, you said, that's… Draco, that's thousands of years!'

'They aren't the originals,' he said, shrugging. 'And there won't be that many of the older ones…'

'But… do you have any idea how old those things could be? From the beginning of humanity…' Hermione suddenly felt very faint.

'Not much of it is going to be older than the other ancient documents we have,' he pointed out. 'It's only a few bits…'

Hermione was still stunned. 'Thousands of years!'

'Do you want me to tell you about half-Fallens or not?' Draco asked, appearing amused.

'What? Oh, yes, please,' Hermione said, leaning forwards. 'How did you start? I mean, the half-Fallens, that is… how true is the myth of the Fall? How did that get started, anyway, because the myth's fairly recent and half-Fallens started ages ago…'

'We've been in quite a bit of mythology throughout time,' Draco said thoughtfully. 'Various half-Fallens have told people the story, and it got written into legends. The most recent was the Bible, as you said, I think we were mentioned in there… Is there a religion section in this library?'

'I think there's one in Muggle Studies,' Hermione replied after a moment's pause, and Draco gracefully got up and went to look, leaving a curious Hermione behind. Two minutes later, he returned with a copy of the Bible, which he sat down with and began flicking through carefully, so as not to tear the tissue-thin pages.

'Genesis six, Genesis six…' he muttered. 'Here it is. 'That the sons of God saw the daughters of men; that they were fair, and they took them wives of all that they chose.' Then, 'There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.'' He sat back, pushing the book away.

'The original Hebrew phrase for 'Sons of God' was _bene elohim_, which some theologians believe refers to fallen angels. In other words, us, or the original Fallens.'

'And the translation as Sons of God?' Hermione asked.

Draco shrugged. 'I haven't a clue. One thing the earliest writings don't tell us is how the original Fallens and the 'angels' they fought-'

'The good ones?'

'Yes, them. It doesn't say how they came to be.' Draco frowned. 'If we were created by a God, remind me to do something very unpleasant to Him at the earliest opportunity. Preferably involving something… pointy.'

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, and Draco grinned at her. He looked very odd in that moment. The September sunlight was streaming through a window to his left, giving golden tones to his hair and skin, making him look something like an old painting. Except that old paintings were rarely seen with such an amused grin on their face.

'Anyway,' Hermione said, when she calmed down, 'what do you know about the good version of Fallens? The angels, I mean. And the war?'

'It's most likely we're the evil versions of the good ones,' Draco said pensively. 'From what we know, we were pretty much identical, except they have the desire to cause good, and we have the desire to cause evil. The main reason for believing that they were the original species is our wings… did Rita mention anything about our wings?'

Hermione shook her head. 'Not that I remember…'

'If you touch them, you get… it's hard to describe…' He paused. 'A good feeling. The writings described it as warmth and contentment, I think. And since we're the evil ones, I don't think we'd naturally have an effect like that – unless the good angels were the original species, they had that effect, and when we split off it was carried over.'

Hermione considered this. 'That makes sense,' she said. 'I didn't know that about the wings… do you have any other interesting abilities you haven't told me about?'

'You know about flying?' Draco asked, and Hermione nodded. 'I don't think so then… oh, we have lightweight bones. Honeycombed, I think, like bird's bones.'

Hermione's eyes widened in realisation. '_That's_ why you were so light!'

'Pardon?'

'When we played that trust game. I _thought_ you felt really light… that would explain it.'

Draco nodded. 'Lighter bones means it's easier to fly. The downside is that they're more easily breakable, I must have broken a bone at least… fifteen times?'

Hermione winced. 'I've never broken any.'

'It's not so bad. Hurts, but you can fix it with a quick spell.'

'Unless you're Lockhart,' Hermione added with a grin. Draco looked confused for a minute, then remembered the incident in second year and snorted.

'Thankfully, I'm not,' Draco said. 'And I learnt that spell in first year…'

Hermione frowned. 'That's quite a difficult spell, it's definitely OWL level at least…'

'I was used to doing hard spells,' Draco explained with a shrug. 'Dark Arts – I told you that half-Fallens-'

'Are talented at Dark Arts. Yes, I know,' Hermione said with a shudder. 'But that's a healing spell, not Dark Arts…'

'Doing difficult spells in an area you're talented at makes it easier to do spells in an area you aren't talented at, I believe,' Draco said thoughtfully. 'It did take a lot of practice. On a bone from a roast chicken, before you get worried about me breaking people's legs…'

'The thought hadn't even crossed my mind,' Hermione said with a smile. Something about her manner caused Draco to frown at her.

'You do realise that the only reason I didn't use a living person was that it would have been impractical?' he said, quite quietly, and Hermione shivered. It was true. Fallens, after all, wanted to hurt…

'Yes. I do,' she said, and an awkward kind of silence fell over them. Why had he asked her that? Did he want her to think him cruel or evil? He wasn't, she knew that – his Fallen side was, but not the human. Was he reminding her that Fallens were evil? She'd known that, but perhaps… perhaps she hadn't accepted their nature fully. Always wanting to cause harm… talented at Dark Arts…

She shook herself, forcing her mind back to Draco, back to the library and their discussion. 'If half-Fallens are talented at the Dark Arts,' she asked, 'are many of the Death Eaters half-Fallen?'

Draco shook his head. 'There aren't many of us left,' he explained. 'Three in England that I know of… perhaps twenty worldwide. There used to be hundreds…'

'So in England, there's you and your father. Who's the third? Is he a Death Eater too?'

Draco shifted a little in his chair. 'I'm not certain I should tell you that,' he said warily. 'Dumbledore barely told anyone in the Order…'

'Yes, but this isn't about the Order, this is about… me wanting to know more about your kind,' Hermione said.

'So nothing but curiosity, then?' Draco asked. 'Why should I tell you?'

'Because I'm helping you,' Hermione pointed out firmly. 'Because I want to know. And because I don't think you care much for rules…'

'How am I supposed to know whether I care about rules?' Draco asked. 'Rules are… there. To be taken into account. If the consequences of breaking a rule are preferable to the consequences of not breaking it, you break it. Logic. One place it still seems to apply…'

'And this isn't even a rule,' Hermione was quick to point out. 'Is it logical to tell me, or not to tell me?'

'Logic doesn't seem to have much of an opinion,' Draco said, closing his eyes and leaning back. 'I'll tell you, but only because I have a feeling you won't stop asking me if I don't. He opened his eyes, looking directly at her. 'Voldemort.'

'What?' she asked, puzzled. 'What about…'

'He's one of us. A half-Fallen.'

* * *

**A/N: **After a gentle-ish chapter, I just had to leave you on a nasty point… Though next chapter's going to contain more, not least an explanation of a few inherent problems with Draco's little revelation. Anyone who can spot one of the problems gets chocolate. The Bible quote is genuine and can be found, as Draco said, in Genesis 6, right at the beginning. There are alternative interpretations of the passage – as there is with everything Biblical – but that one seems the most sound. Or at least the most interesting.

And now, review, review, review, a thousand times review. Well, alright, not a thousand times. Once will do. Please?


	27. Insight

**Chapter 26: Insight**

**Disclaimer:** Ms. Rowling? Can your characters come out to play? … Nope, I won't claim I'm their mother. Just play with them for a while.

**Thanks for 880 reviews goes to: **storm079, draconas, Lexie, Madam Midnight, Nikki, foxer, twizz, sara, willowfairy, Crystaldragonfly, Slytheravengryffinpuff, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-I-want-this-to-be-the-longest-author-name-ever-thank-you-very-much, Mystique Rain, Lyra Silvertongue2, Go10, Plaidly Lush, Noukster, ablakevh, Joseph, Astarael, samhaincat, starr taleyn, Flexi Lexi, fantasymei-aqua, citcat299, Alexi Lupin, krispykreme1468, Saotoshi, kessi1011, OXBglider, Quello Bello, Saraiyu, Lady Mariel, JoeBob1379, angeli1angeli, SandryLark, Raiast, jeannie, ToOtHpIcK (x2), heavengurl899 (x3), Jessica, KrystyWroth, finally-defeated, rain4life (x2), sweetest goodbye, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, liar, Alyssium.

**A/N:** Well, I'm exhausted. My charity work (for Barnardos, on a playscheme for severely disabled children) started this week, and as fate would have it I'm on the scheme on Thursdays and Fridays, the exact two days when I want to be polishing off the chapter (and massive thanks to my reviewers, the thought of whom kept my awake on Thursday as I busily polished away. Cheers.)

I also had much exhausting fun on the playscheme (including burying one of the other volunteers in the ball pool…) I'm on it for the next three weeks too, except for Thursday 26th, when I'm getting my GCSE results… very nervous. If I vanish mysteriously after that date, then I've either been killed by my parents or taken the path of noble suicide :P I hopefully won't vanish. Hopefully.

On to happier things: the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_If one is master of one thing and understands one thing well, one has, at the same time, insight into and understanding of many things._

**_Vincent van Gogh, 1853-1890_**

* * *

'He's one of us. A half-Fallen.'

There was a certain odd sensation Hermione recalled from moments like this; like the split second after she'd seen the reflected Basilisk stalking towards her before the Petrification had taken effect, or the time the Dementors had shown up to the Quidditch match in third year and sent Harry plummeting to the ground.

She could never really describe it: perhaps it could be compared to blunted pins and needles all over her skin, or a haze of grey fog clogging up her head, or all her thoughts slowed down and muted in favour of a single clear thread, repeating the most expressive swear word she knew over and over again. But none of those could really define what it felt like to have your entire mind taken over by pure and simple shock for heartbeat after heartbeat…

'Hermione?'

Draco was looking at her oddly, a slight frown on his face, and she realised that this might be a good time to get her vocal cords to work.

'… Oh,' she said eventually, a very quiet sound, but sufficient enough to snap her back to reality. Voldemort? Half-Fallen? Even as her mind tried to protest against it, to say that it was not true, could not be true, it made an awful kind of sense.

Maybe Draco was mistaken, or had been lied to, or…

'But he hates Harry,' Hermione protested dumbly, 'and half-Fallens don't…'

'_I_ hated Harry,' Draco pointed out. 'Or at least pretended that I did. You never knew the difference, did you?'

'No,' Hermione admitted, flushing as she realised that she really, really ought to have spotted that.

'So you wouldn't know Voldemort was pretending either. We keep ourselves very, very hidden. I wouldn't imagine that more than half a dozen of the Death Eaters, at the very most, knows about us…'

Hermione nodded distantly, still trying to get her head around the concept. Logically, she knew that this made very little difference – they'd always known that Voldemort was out for power, out to kill people, and learning that he was half-Fallen changed nothing but his motivations. But it was more frightening to know that they were fighting an enemy with no emotions, no feelings, nothing but logic and an instinct to harm. It made him more inhuman, more of a monster; the very stuff of childhood nightmares made flesh.

Her mind ranged back to all Harry's close encounters with Voldemort, revisiting them, testing this new knowledge against them. She remembered Ginny, talking about the diary-version of Tom – _he was perfect, Hermione, everything he did and said and pretended was perfectly done, and I was too silly to realise that it was too perfect_ – and that fitted, because all of a half-Fallen's life was spent acting, spent pretending. Other things either supported the idea or were neutral to it: Harry fighting Quirrel in first year, Harry duelling Voldemort in the graveyard, Harry's scar…

_Wait._

'You can't be right,' Hermione said, looking up from the tabletop with a surprisingly strong swell of glee rising inside her. 'He can't be a half-Fallen!'

Draco frowned. 'I've seen proof with my own eyes,' he said simply. 'Why do you think…?'

'Because,' Hermione said triumphantly, 'Harry's scar acts like a connection to Voldemort, and Harry has _felt Voldemort's emotions_!'

She settled back into her chair, grinning widely, but Draco merely frowned a little in consideration.

'So Potter's linked to Voldemort?' he asked. 'That's… hmm,' He considered for a moment. 'Creepy, I think, or unsettling. Something like that.'

'The link isn't the point,' Hermione said, 'the point is that Voldemort has emotions, ergo, he isn't half-Fallen.'

Draco regarded her for a minute. 'Do you know anything about Legilimency?' he asked, and Hermione twitched in surprise at the question. She mustn't let Draco know about Harry's Occlumency lessons.

'Yes,' she said, guardedly, and quickly added, 'I read about it once when I was researching for a Charms essay.'

Thankfully he didn't ask what the topic of the invented Charm essay had been. 'Some of the notes in my mother's archive said that when a human tried Legilimency on a half-Fallen, the difference between the two types of mind caused… oddities.'

'What kinds of oddities?'

'Sometimes the human couldn't sense anything at all,' Draco said. 'Sometimes it felt like an animal's mind would feel. And sometimes the human perceived it as an ordinary human mind – complete with emotions. The archives seemed to think that the human mind translated the Fallen mind into something it could understand. The emotions were generally the ones that the half-Fallen would have felt, were they human. So if the half-Fallen were having a heated discussion, the human would sense anger; if he were in danger, the human would perceive fear…

'So you think Harry's scar works like that?' Hermione asked, already feeling he initial rush of joy dying rapidly.

'It would make sense.'

Hermione couldn't think of anything to say to that. Part of her wanted to run up to Gryffindor tower that instant and tell Harry everything; the other part knew that would mean betraying Draco's secret. But then, what if the knowledge was vital? What if Harry ended up fighting Voldemort again, as he so often did, and the knowledge of Voldemort's true nature helped him in a life-or-death situation…?

'Don't tell Potter,' Draco said suddenly, as if he knew what she was thinking.

'How did you…?'

He smirked, casually leaning back in his chair. 'I've had many years' experience in reading people,' he pointed out. 'You looked conflicted. _Logically_,' he always seemed to put a wry twist on that word now, 'it followed that you were worrying over whether to tell Potter or not, since we all know that the Boy-Who-Lived has run into him… how many times now?'

'Five,' said Hermione automatically. 'I just thought it might be important…'

'And if it were vitally important for Potter to know, Dumbledore would have told him,' Draco pointed out firmly. 'End of discussion.'

Hermione frowned for a moment, unsure what to say, before she realised Draco was probably right. He seemed to take her silence as submission; he gave one short nod and glanced away, leaving her to muse over the implications of Voldemort being half-Fallen…

'You said there were only three of you in Britain?' Hermione asked distractedly, to which Draco gave an affirmative _mmm_. 'What happened to Voldemort's parents then? One of his parents must have been half-Fallen for him to inherit it, and I know his mother died… didn't he kill his father?' She looked up sharply, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. 'And his father was Muggle, so it must have been his mother who was half-Fallen, which means you can have female half-Fallens, I was wondering about that…'

Draco was looking at her with an odd expression on his face. 'Are you planning on breathing any time soon?' he asked.

She ignored him. 'So why did a half-Fallen have a child by a Muggle, and how did Voldemort's mother die, anyway? How hard is it to kill a half-Fallen? Was that why he survived the Killing Curse, because he's half-Fallen? And-'

'Hermione,' Draco cut in, 'could you try to ask one question at once?'

She flushed. 'Oh. Sorry, I was sort of… thinking aloud.'

He waved a hand dismissively. 'It's fine. Just don't blame me if I miss a question out. Now…' He leaned forwards, eyebrows furrowing reflectively. 'You were right in your assumption that it was Voldemort's mother who was the half-Fallen. And yes, women can be half-Fallen, though it's much less common. Part of the potion to make sure a child is half-Fallen also requires that you specify gender, and males were generally chosen over females. Mainly because that would ensure the half-Fallen genes stayed within a few family lines, rather than being spread through most of the pureblood families. In order to keep it secret, you understand.'

Hermione nodded, fascination creeping over her. 'And Voldemort's mother was one of the few females that were produced?'

'Yes,' Draco replied simply. 'Half-Fallens are dying out, and the original family lines have dwindled in number. I believe it was decided by her family that they should produce female children and marry them into other wizarding families, to bolster the number of half-Fallen bloodlines. Male children would also have led to half-Fallen births, but all within the same family,' he explained.

'So how did she end up with a Muggle?'

A smug smile appeared on Draco's face; for a moment he looked exactly like his old self. 'That is something my family is very fortunate to know,' he said. 'Voldemort's mother was - before me - the most recent half-Fallen whose personalities switched.' He paused for a moment to survey Hermione's expression, before continuing. 'Of course, the experience was unpleasant, to say the least. We only know anything about this because of a journal she started about a month after her change, which she sent by owl to my grandmother – the human partner of my half-Fallen grandfather, and thus the best person to have care of it – shortly before she died.'

Hermione was listening in rapt attention. 'And? What did the journal say?'

'To put it simply? She ran away from the wizarding world completely, as she knew that the other half-Fallens would seek to switch her personalities back. She took shelter with Tom Riddle, and the journal gets a little confused from then on… not unsurprisingly for someone just learning emotions.' He sighed. 'Anyway, one thing led to another and she ended up pregnant with Lord Voldemort.'

'Without using that potion?' Hermione frowned.

'Yes, without the potion. I told you before: there's an equal chance of having a half-Fallen birth whether you use the potion or not. The reason the potion is used is because it saves messing around with the other fifty percent of the time. Where was I? Ah yes,' he carried on without waiting for an answer, 'she was pregnant. Then her Fallen side began to fight back, to struggle for dominance again…'

Hermione's head snapped up. 'What?' she asked. 'It can do that?'

'The Fallen side is naturally stronger,' Draco shrugged. 'Which is why it usually stays in control. Some Fallens-turned-human never change back, some do in less than a year. It's complicated, and no one really knows why. Personality seems to be the most common theory… Anyway, shortly after giving birth, she knew she was about to change back. She didn't want to unleash that kind of malice on the world again. So she left the baby at a Muggle orphanage, not knowing whether it was human or Fallen, sent her journal to my grandmother, and committed suicide.'

There was a short, sharp silence.

'Oh,' said Hermione rather shakily. 'She… killed herself?'

'That is the general definition of 'suicide'.' Draco replied simply. 'Did I answer all the questions?'

'Erm…' Hermione forced herself to think, 'I asked about how easy it was to kill half-Fallens, and whether that was why Voldemort survived the Killing Curse…'

'Half-Fallens die as easily as any human would,' Draco shrugged. 'Full Fallens, however, appear to be less easily killed… the Killing Curse would probably weaken or injure them severely, but not kill them. Of course, we don't _know_, because the Killing Curse hadn't been invented in their day. It's hypothesis. The reason Voldemort survived is… did I ever tell you about separation?'

'Separation?' Hermione echoed, frowning. 'I don't think so…'

He leant back, preparing himself for another explanation. 'The half-Fallen and human minds, different though they are, need each other to survive. Experimentations were done to separate the two halves, producing one full Fallen and a normal human. The full Fallen had immense power, but both halves would die within an hour or so. And the instant one half died, the other half died too. What Voldemort would dearly love is to separate out the human part of himself and leave himself fully Fallen, unconquerable…'

Hermione's eyes grew wide. 'He isn't going to _succeed_, is he?'

'Who knows?' Draco shrugged. 'What he has succeeded in doing is weakening the human side and strengthening the Fallen side, so he's more a three-quarter Fallen then a half-Fallen. That's probably why he survived the Killing Curse; he had just little enough human in him to live…'

Hermione shuddered at that; Draco paused a moment before asking, 'Was that all the questions?'

'All the ones I asked before,' she said, 'but I have another one, I'm afraid. You know how you said that Voldemort's mother's Fallen side almost took control of her again?'

'Yes…' Draco said slowly.

'Could… could that happen to you?'

Draco's face was pale; his eyes a strangely dark shade of grey. 'I don't know.'

* * *

'Lavender! Is that Witch Weekly? Why didn't you call me when it came, you know I've been dying to read the second part of that article on cosmetic charms!'

Harry closed his eyes. The red and gold of the Gryffindor common room, usually cosy and welcoming, were garish and far too bright today. And the room was packed with students, adding even more jarring colours with schoolbags and favourite quills, jewellery and inkpots and even the familiar Weasley-red hair.

He only wished he could close his ears too, and block out all the laughter and chatter and _why_ did Lavender and Parvati have to squeal so loudly over that bloody magazine?

There was only one reason why he didn't crawl upstairs to a blissfully quiet dormitory and fall asleep; he had to act normal, if not for his own sake then at least for his friends. Hermione had already looked awfully worried when she came in, skin white and eyes wide, and she'd only got more anxious as she sat down beside them and gave Harry a rather weak smile. Ron was worried too, and that wasn't like him.

The only one who wasn't worrying – or at least, was acting very well if she were – was Ginny, who had managed to keep up a constant stream of cheerful, bright chatter. He was grateful to her from that: it kept the air of anxiety swirling around their corner from growing too dense, too heavy; and it meant he didn't feel so awkward about how to act after Occlumency.

'So _erubesce_ dries your lips out? And I've been using it all this time and I _never knew?_' That was Parvati, loud and shrill, and for an instant Harry wanted to hit them both with as powerful a silencing charm as he could muster. No, he told himself firmly. He had to act normally, to stay calm, even if all he really wanted was to curl up somewhere quiet and spend all of his concentration on trying not to think…

'Harry?' Ginny, this time. 'Have you ever had one of those Murdering Marshmallows that Fred and George made?'

He shook his head, forcing himself not to follow the line of association from _murdering_ to _death_ to _Sirius_, and as an added measure said, 'No, what are they like?'

'Really fun, actually. They look like normal marshmallows, but as soon as you try to eat one they attempt to murder you. Some of them grow massive teeth and try to bite you, some jump down your throat to choke you, I had one turn into acid and try to burn me…'

'Isn't that a little… dangerous?' Hermione asked, frowning.

'Oh, no, they don't really murder you.' Ginny assured her. 'The biting ones always miss, the choking ones shrink, and the acid one wasn't actually acid. Don't know what it was, but it didn't do anything dangerous…'

Hermione still looked disapproving, but didn't comment further.

'Hang on, Parvati, I was reading that article!'

The shrill voices of the girls cut into the conversation again. 'What, the one on Muggle beauty treatments?'

'No, no, the one on Hestia Bennett-Edmonds. Now let me read…'

And Ginny spoke again: 'They should do something with quills,' she was musing. 'I mean, Sugar Quills are nice, but they aren't very exciting. And they make my teeth ache…'

She was cut off by the sudden appearance of Dean Thomas, who had crept up behind her and pecked her quickly on the cheek, making her jump. Harry, facing Ginny, should have seen him coming; but he hadn't even noticed. _I will pay attention_, he thought to himself, swearing that he wouldn't drift off into thoughts of his godfather…

Dean settled himself in the seat next to Ginny, curling an arm around her shoulders. 'What makes your teeth ache?' he asked.

'What? Oh, Sugar Quills.' Ginny replied. 'Which is annoying, because I love them, but…' She shrugged. 'How's your football team doing? West… er…' She bit her lip. 'It had something to do with pigs. Not West Pork…'

'West _Ham_,' Dean said, his tone somewhere between amusement and annoyance. 'And it's doing okay, I guess…'

Harry wondered whether 'doing okay' meant Dean's favourite football team really was doing fine, or whether he was using it in the same way Harry seemed to use it these days – a hair's breadth away from an outright lie, meant to stop the questioner asking rather than to really provide an answer.

He would be _fine_. He told himself that firmly. As soon as he got to bed and had a good night's sleep, a proper night's sleep, he'd be fine, and he could get up tomorrow and he _would_ be better then, and the echoes of all those memories _would_ have faded away, and he'd be able to say _doing okay_ without lying.

Just get through today, and tomorrow would be better…

'Harry?' Ginny again. 'Did you ever play football?'

'What? Er… no,' he said. 'Well, once or twice, at school…' He noticed Dean glaring at him, and stopped talking. He hadn't played much football mainly because Dudley played football, and if Harry joined in he tended to get an 'accidental' kick or punch from his gang.

Dean was talking again. 'Shall we go for a walk,' he asked Ginny, raising a significant eyebrow which highlighted that the word 'walk' was in fact a synonym for 'walk to the nearest broom closet or abandoned classroom.' Ron scowled, and opened his mouth, but a dark glare from Hermione stopped him saying anything.

'Couldn't we stay here?' Ginny asked, looking pleadingly at Dean. 'I'm kind of tired…'

'From what?' Dean's voice had taken on a surprisingly sharp edge. 'It's the weekend, you haven't done anything but homework…'

'It's my OWL year, the teachers are giving us tons…' Ginny protested.

'You don't look tired,' Dean accused, then threw a nasty look at roughly the space between Ron and Harry. 'Can't we just go for one walk?'

She rested her head on his shoulder, trying to placate him. 'Maybe later… I just want to rest right now. Hermione, have you heard about…'

'Fine!' Dean seemed to explode suddenly, a small, tightly-packed burst of anger. 'Stay here and talk to your _friends_, I'm going for a walk by myself.'

And with that, he stood up and stormed out of the portrait hole.

'Well,' Hermione said, after a moment's surprised pause, 'I wonder what's upset him so much?'

'I haven't a clue,' Harry said, as Lavender and Parvati began to chatter about Hestia's latest Muggle charity work project.

* * *

**A/N: '**_Erubesce' _means 'redden'.

Now, as for reviews… you know you want to…

_Whispers: Draco? Draco, I know you're good at Dark Arts…just one Unforgivable? For me?_

_Mysterious Blond And Ferrety Voice From Off Stage: Fine. Imperio!_

_Mwhahahaha… _You didn't see that. Now review!


	28. Only Quidditch

**Chapter 27: Only Quidditch**

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JK Rowling. Blackmail belongs to my beta. See the AN!

**Thanks for 918 reviews goes to: **Storm079, foxer, ablakevh,kessi1011, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-I-want-this-to-be-the-longest-author-name-ever-thank-you-very-much, citcat299, Flexi Lexi, ToOtHpIcK, Lexie, JoeBob1379, willowfairy, Saraiyu, Nikki, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, burgandyred, Plaidly Lush, alexix, Crystella, Hidden Relevance, A Genuine Freakshow, Kiyoko, mesmer, angeli1angeli, Slytheravengryffinpuff, Erica G. burgundy red, Arafel2, Quello Bello, jeannie, Alyssum, Alexi Lupin, heavengurl899, finally-defeated, AtlantisPrincess, draconas, emilyeaton-89, jules37, Meghan.

**A/N:** I'll start by getting the bad news out of the way: I'm taking two weeks off Fallen, because of general stress (exam results on the 26th, charity work, forces social outings). If I'd had my way, it'd have been one week and that's it, because I know you all love having frequent updates and you're all fantastic readers who _deserve_ frequent updates, but my beta is putting her foot down. To the point of refusing to discuss, beta, read or even mention Fallen for the next two weeks. And seriously, without her to reassure me approximately every three paragraphs, I go straight to pieces. So yes, she's blackmailing me to take a break. In her own words,

_A message from Delta:_

_As you know, Cyropi has been writing Fallen for 28 chapters, one a week, every week, with only a months break. In that month, only _one week_ was spent relaxing on holiday. The other three were spent uploading Cursed, and planning and discussing Fallen endlessly._

_Her GCSE results come out a week Thursday, and as she has already told me before I decided she needed a two week break, she will be celebrating and attending parties_ (Cy's note – actually, if current plans go right, I'll be visiting my sister, brother-in-law and niece!)_. We all know she'll do fabulously well and will exceed everyone's expectations, but she has no confidence and will be worrying about them. Now I don't blame her - my own results come out soon and I'm already in a state - but I know from experience that Fallen will cause her even more stress. She works incredibly hard to do a chapter every week, and if she doesn't take a break NOW, she'll burn out._

_So complain at me if you must, but I've blackmailed Cyropi into taking a fortnight's break. When she returns she will be refreshed, jubilant, cheerful, and with another series of excellent chapters for you. And possibly even a new story! -cheers for Macbeth- So allow her this little break. Please?_

When I get my results (on Thursday the 26th) I'll post a note in my profile telling you how I did, for anyone who actually wants to know. And I promise that when I manage to meet up with Lou in real life, I'll kick her. Hard.

Another occurrence of the Twilight Zone Psychic Readers Phenomenon: a few mornings ago I was lying dazedly in bed at some shameful hour of the morning and remembered, completely randomly, a D/Hr fic I read ages ago but couldn't remember the author's name or the title beyond the fact that it had 'Blue' in it somewhere. When I log on to the computer, I find a reviewer (Erica G!) had mentioned both author's name and title in her review.

To field some questions: nope, I didn't specifically state that Voldemort was half-Fallen when I had the scene with him talking to Lucius. I alluded to it though. Very heavily, and if you go back and read that scene again (chapter 19, 20 if you count the prologue) you'll definitely spot it. Speaking of carefully mentioning things which will be important later and which no one seems to notice, there was one little thing which keeps cropping up which no one has picked up on… unless you have, and just didn't mention it?

And as to my quotes: I'd love to say they're all ones I just happen to randomly know, but only a few are. Most of them are from various quotation sites. Oh, and on the topic of quotes; if anyone knows of any good ones that could be fitting, mention them in a review! Song lyrics, sayings, random things people have said…

And on that plea, I'll shuffle off stage and leave you to the fic. Enjoy.

* * *

_If we were to wake up some morning and find that everyone was the same race, creed and color, we would find some other cause for prejudice by noon._

**_George Aiken_**

* * *

Sunday morning breakfasts were generally quiet, peaceful affairs at the Gryffindor table. Everyone would be half-asleep, chattering quietly with relaxed smiles, savouring their last moments of true freedom before they had to traipse up to the common room and make a start on whatever homework was due on Monday morning. They were lovely restful, idyllic times. Ginny smiled nostalgically at the memories of them as she took a large mouthful of honey-sweetened porridge.

Things weren't so idyllic this morning. Dean was still in a mood; sitting half the table away from her and fuming. Harry looked like he hadn't slept a wink last night, and Hermione's face was wearing a permanent anxious frown – sometimes directed towards Harry, sometimes towards Ginny, sometimes to the huge windows through which the morning post entered the Great Hall, and sometimes over Ginny's shoulder at something or someone on one of the other house tables. Probably the school in general, Ginny surmised.

And between Hermione's worry and Harry's exhaustion and Dean's inexplicable anger, the lazy, restful morning Ginny had expected had ended up being oddly tense and fretful. At least Ron was normal; happily wolfing down a large breakfast like he always did in the mornings. She should be thankful for at least one piece of normality, one less thing to contend with, but…

She sighed into her bowl. As the two youngest siblings of a very large family, she and Ron had always been close, and over the summer at Grimmauld Place she'd come to know and like Hermione and Harry quite well too. It was a hard time for them all, with Sirius' death and Voldemort after Harry, and Ginny had taken it upon herself to get them to relax, to talk about normal things, rather than just sitting together in silence until they snapped.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden loud hoot near her ear, making her jump; a plain but intelligent-looking tawny owl landed on the table beside her. Just the Daily Prophet, Ginny realised as she glanced towards its tightly-secured burden. Hermione leaned over to stroke its feathers before untying the paper.

Ginny frowned and took another bite of her porridge. Had she really only noticed the arrival of the morning post when an owl had hooted beside her ear? She'd end up as bad as Harry at this rate – she glanced at him: he was toying with the edge of a piece of toast – or, if she carried on worrying, she'd turn into another Hermione. Gulping down her spoonful, she turned to Harry.

'How's the toast?' she asked.

He looked up. 'Oh. It's fine,' he said, and took a big bite. 'Did the post come already?'

Ginny almost laughed. 'Yes. Nothing for any of us, except the Daily Prophet. I was half-expecting a letter from Mum, she hasn't written in a bit, but she did say she was going to be busy…'

'With what?' Harry asked, interest flickering in his eyes. 'Did she say?'

'Just general things around the Headquarters,' Ginny replied with a shrug. 'Decorating, I think, since the original colour schemes weren't that inspiring…'

She smiled at Harry, glad that things seemed to be livening up a bit. Beside her, Ron had spotted the huge Quidditch article on the back page of the paper and was pleading with Hermione.

'Oh, come on, it's just one page, and the new season's about to start. It's not like you're going to read the Quidditch news anyway…' he pleaded. Hermione sighed.

'Okay, okay,' she said, peeling the desired pages off the newspaper and handing them to Ron, who pounced on them with a massive grin. 'Honestly, it's only Quidditch…'

'Only Quidditch?' Ron asked incredulously. 'Hermione, the Cannons have a new Seeker this season, they could go straight to the top of the league!'

'In your dreams, Ron,' teased Ginny, sticking her tongue out at him. 'They won't get anywhere until they get a decent Keeper…'

'Their Keeper is decent!' Ron protested. 'Just because he let in a few goals-'

'-more goals than anyone else in the entire league-'

'-doesn't make him a bad Keeper.' Ron finished, glaring at his sister, who gave him a cheeky smile. Everyone there knew Ron wasn't really angry: after all, the two Weasley siblings had had this argument practically daily for the past week.

Ron huffed and returned to the Quidditch news, and Ginny turned back to Harry, who was grinning widely. 'Who do you think is going to win the league this season?' she asked.

Harry chewed his toast thoughtfully. Hermione and Ron had settled into dedicated reading of their respective parts of the paper. 'Well,' Harry said, 'I'm not really up-to-date with the latest Quidditch news, but…'

He paused, and Dean took that moment to start an over-loud conversation with Seamus. 'Have you done that Charms homework yet? I'm stuck on the history of the _Ambages_ charm, I can't find it anywhere…'

Dean's chin was raised and oddly angled; Ginny knew her boyfriend well enough to know that meant he was furious, but hiding it. She sighed, stirring her spoon glumly through the rapidly-cooling remains of her porridge.

'Do you know what's up with Dean?' Harry asked, his tone conversational. 'He's not spoken to me since he stormed off last night. I tried to ask what was wrong this morning, but he ignored me. And Ron.'

Ginny frowned. 'And he hasn't spoken to me either.' She glanced up to see Harry pouring himself a fresh glass of orange juice, not looking what he was doing: his puzzled gaze was instead resting on Dean. Ginny had to bite back a groan. The last thing she needed right now was Harry getting something else to worry about…

'Forget about it,' she said, catching hold of his hand and tilting the carton in it upright. The glass had been about to overflow. 'I'm sure it's nothing to do with you. Probably just some big misunderstanding.'

'Possibly,' Harry said, 'but I think it does have something to do with me and Ron. After all, Dean was speaking to Seamus and Neville this morning…'

As he took a sip of his orange juice, Ginny came to a sudden realisation: Harry didn't look upset when he talked about Dean. Usually when he was thinking of something bad you could tell at a glance: he lost the colour from his cheeks and the emerald from his eyes; his lips failed to curl into that tiny half-smile he usually wore around his friends. His skin would pale, as though it were merely a thin, translucent layer of flesh over paper-white bone. His eyes would widen, lose their focus.

He didn't look like that now: he looked normal.

Ginny immediately dismissed the idea that he wasn't worried about Dean at all. She could tell that he was from the slight furrow between his eyebrows, the careful, considering look he wore. He was worried, then, but didn't seem bothered by the worry; seemed almost to be enjoying it…

She realised what it was: she'd done exactly the same thing after her first year, after Tom. When something was _that_ wrong, such a huge and massive weight on your mind… it had helped to worry about other things. Little things that didn't matter, so you could pretend the big, important things weren't really that big.

She bit her lip, hard. Poor, poor Harry…

'Er… Hermione?'

That was Ron, paling rapidly so that his skin was almost the colour of the pages of the newspaper he was holding out to Hermione. 'I think I found what you're looking for.'

They all knew that Hermione mainly got the Daily Prophet to look for Voldemort's influence, his subtle propaganda. Ginny couldn't see the page he was holding out for Hermione's inspection, but she seized it sharply, biting her lip, her eyes worryingly wide and flickering over the parchment at an unnatural speed.

'Hermione?' Ginny asked. 'What is it? What now?'

Wordlessly, Hermione held the newspaper up for her inspection.

It read,

**Foul Play Predictions Marr New Quidditch Season**

_The Quaffles are out, the Bludgers are flying, and the Snitches are gleaming as brightly as the League Cup – but just how brightly is that?_

_Quidditch has always been a noble sport, enjoyed by some of the most ancient wizarding families for centuries. The Quidditch pitch has been a symbol of sportsmanship, graciousness and chivalry. But not for much longer, according to the Ministry's Department of Magical Sports and Games._

_'Fouls, rule-breaking and unfair play have been on a definite rise over the past decade,' said a Ministry spokesman. 'Previously these underhand tactics were resorted to only by the desperate, but recently they seem to have become commonplace.'_

_And he has the statistics to back his claims up – nearly three times as many fouls were committed in the past year as there were fifteen years ago. And a mere four years ago, the average Chaser was only half as likely to sustain a serious injury. The main cause of injury being, of course, foul play._

_In an attempt to discover the root of the rule-breaking, the Daily Prophet spoke to Muggleborn Rachel Verity who committed 'blurting' in a friendly match against the Appleby Arrows last week, resulting in serious injury to the Arrows' new Chaser. 'Blurting' is defined as 'locking broom handles with a view to steering opponent off course', a severe form of fouling which can and has lead to fatalities._

_When questioned on her actions, Verity had this to say: 'I maintain that I was falsely accused by the referee. My broom handle did interlock with that of the other Chaser, but this was an accident. We flew too close together and, regrettably, both twisted towards each other at the same time, causing our broom handles to become entangled. I regret the accident as much as anyone, but I defend my innocence, and my team intends to make a formal objection to the relevant authorities.'_

_One of the spectators at the match had a differing opinion. 'It was quite clearly an intentional foul,' said Robin Lea, 34. 'She flew purposefully and deliberately into her opposing Chaser's broomstick, a very clear case of blurting. I wouldn't have thought her capable of such violence, to be honest. She lives close to my house, with her Muggle parents and sister, and I've spoken to her a few times. Rachel seemed nice enough, but what I saw on the Quidditch pitch was pure, premeditated violence.'_

_Verity isn't the only Muggleborn showing signs of violence. Roberts, a Chaser for the Ballycastle Bats; Durran, Beater for the Kenmare Kestrels, and Cooper, Chaser for the Montrose Magpies, have all committed serious fouls in the past Quidditch season – and all of them, along with numerous others, are Muggleborn._

_The number of Muggleborns on Quidditch teams has been increasing ever since the first downfall of You-Know-Who, and the number of fouls has also been increasing steadily. Is this, then, the answer to the sportsmanship inherent in the wizarding world's most noble sport?_

_And if the fouls keep on coming, what will happen to this game of champions? 'The Ministry is considering new preventative measures to keep Quidditch players safe,' said our Ministry spokesman, 'which may, regrettably, impact the enjoyment of the game.' _

_One thing's for certain – the future isn't shining brightly for Quidditch._

Ginny sat up slowly, having to scan the final few paragraphs again, to be certain she hadn't missed anything, any subtle point that might alter the article's meaning. Beside her, Harry sat back in his chair, shaking his head slowly as if in disbelief.

'Well,' he said after a moment's pause, 'that was pretty unsubtle, wasn't it.'

'But no one's going to get taken in by _that_,' Ron said, frowning and trying to lean across the table to see the article again. Hermione let him take it. 'I mean, it's dead obvious it's all prejudice and lies…'

'Oh, it's obvious to _us_,' Hermione said in an oddly high-pitched voice. 'We _know_ Voldemort's trying to get more followers, trying to reduce the opposition; we know he's using the media and such to spread prejudice. What about _them_?' she asked, gesturing with a quivering hand to the school in general. '_They_ don't know the Prophet's biased, they're going to believe what it says, they're going to start thinking that Muggleborns are… are violent, or cheaters, and _then_ what are they going to do…'

Ginny grabbed tight hold of Hermione's hand. 'Hermione! Calm down,' she ordered firmly, giving the other girl's hand a tight squeeze. 'Some of them might, but not all of them will. Have a little faith in other people. Some of them are intelligent enough to realise all this is rubbish…'

'But what about the ones who don't?' Hermione asked, very soft and quiet. 'They did exactly this kind of thing with the Nazis, all propaganda and lies and people not knowing it wasn't really true. And it's horrible, because you can't fight against prejudice with spells or hexes or curses, you have to try to get people to realise that their prejudice is wrong and that's really hard and I don't know how...'

The two boys had been hovering on the edge of this exchange, frowning in an anxious way. Ron took the opportunity to give Hermione a tentative pat on the shoulder, as if worried that she'd explode at the touch.

'I think you could get anyone to realise they were wrong,' he said loyally. 'And besides, you know Dumbledore and the rest of the Order know about Voldemort and the prejudice stuff. They'll be helping fight it.'

'I guess…' Hermione said. 'It's just… how many people are going to be reading this article this morning? How many of them are going to take it seriously? And all the rest of the propaganda as well, how many of them are going to take that seriously and then decide that the Death Eaters are the best way to solve the problem? And… and it's a lot easier to instil prejudices in someone than it is to remove them…' She pulled her hand away from Ginny's and leant her elbows on the table, forehead resting in the palms of her hands, fingers curled in her hair. 'Why is it so hard to stop?' she asked miserably.

Harry was the one to reply. 'I don't know,' he said simply, and exchanged a worried look with Ginny. Ron, with a Weasley's instinct to resort to food in times of crises, attempted to console Hermione with a helping of pancakes coated thickly in sticky maple syrup.

Ginny returned to her porridge, realising there were no answers she could give to cheer her up, and that it was probably best to leave it to Ron. She knew from experience how comforting he could be when you were upset; just to have him there, proof that _some_ things stayed solid and warm and comforting.

Harry gave her a nudge. 'Should we be… you know, doing something?' he asked quietly, with a nod towards Hermione. Ginny gave him a reassuring smile.

'There isn't much we can do,' she said, summarising her own thoughts of moments before. 'And Ron's comforting. Probably best we leave him to it.'

Harry looked uncertain for a minute, his eyes flickering towards Hermione, but he seemed to accept what she said. 'In that case,' he asked, his voice again low, 'have you looked at Dean lately?'

She glanced in her boyfriend's direction, and was startled to see him glaring in her general direction as though Voldemort himself was sitting at her right hand.

'He was like that for ages. Ever since we found the article,' Harry continued. 'I…' He paused, shrugged. 'Do you have any idea why he's acting like that?'

'No.' Ginny replied. 'Do you think I should go talk to him?'

He considered this. 'You'll have to sooner or later. Mealtimes are probably the best time; it's less likely he'll start shouting with other people around. Not that I think it's likely he'll start shouting,' he hastily clarified, 'just that he _might_. He does look pretty annoyed about _something_…'

Ginny nodded and glanced back towards her boyfriend. He had quite a temper on him at times, she knew that much. And she knew he most likely wouldn't tell her on his own. She liked Dean: he was funny and clever and warm and artistic, the kind of boy who wouldn't object to you using his shoulder as a pillow when you were sleepy on long summer evenings, who could make anyone laugh with a retelling of a favourite joke, who would doodle your name and portrait diligently in the margin of his History notes.

And with these qualities in mind, she gave Harry a quick nod and slid out of her seat.

Dean pretended not to notice her as she approached, although she could tell he knew she was there. Seamus gave her a cheery grin, which helped her feel a little better. And why did she feel nervous, anyway? It was only Dean. She was only asking why he was upset with her. And…

'Dean?' she asked softly. He ignored her. She hovered, a foot or two away from his defensively hunched shoulders, his firmly turned head, his bitterness, and tried to figure out what to do. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and rested it on his shoulder, afraid he would shrug her off and repeated herself louder and firmer.

'Dean?'

He didn't shrug her off, but his voice was cold and hard and reminded her of scraping her fingernails along an ice cube. 'Finally got bored of Harry and his gang, have you?' he asked. 'Got a spare minute with nothing better to do?'

'Dean?' This third time it was a puzzled query. 'What… I just want to know why you're so upset. Why you're angry. I don't know what I've done to hurt you, and I'm sorry for whatever it is…'

He didn't reply, staring instead at his orange juice as though it were utterly fascinating. Seamus gave him a pointed look, then sighed and turned to Ginny.

'He's upset because he thinks you've been spending too much time with Harry and Hermione and your brother,' he explained simply, ignoring Dean's sudden betrayed splutter. 'I tried to tell him that anyone with eyes can see something's wrong with you lot and you're trying to help, but he was too angry to listen.'

'Seamus!' Dean protested 'You weren't… why did you… you told her!'

'Yes,' Seamus replied evenly, 'because you obviously weren't going to and I don't see how she's supposed to know what's wrong unless someone explains it.' He nodded to Ginny. 'He's all yours.'

Ginny didn't know whether to be relieved or upset. Relieved because it wasn't as serious as she'd feared it might be, but upset because she doubted this would be easily solved.

Sliding into the seat next to him – a gaggle enthralled of third-year girls shuffled out of the way and watched in fascination. He turned his head away from her, but when she caught hold of his cheek he let her turn his head to face her.

'I guess I haven't spent as much time with you as I could have,' she began, biting her lip, but slightly reassured by the fact that he didn't look angry anymore; merely sullen and sulky. 'And I'm sorry. I love spending time with you, and I care about you a lot, but I also care about my friends…' He was frowning, turning his face downwards; Ginny grasped his chin and tilted it back up. 'Don't get upset at me for it, you do the same…'

'I don't spend every waking minute with them,' Dean protested.

'Neither do I, and I wouldn't want to besides.' Ginny said firmly. 'I do want to spend time with you. It's just… I have my friends too, and they're going through a bit of a rough patch right now. You've seen Harry lately…'

Seamus cut in nonchalantly, as though this were a perfectly normal conversation. 'Going all funny, not talking to people and drifting off into some kind of dreamworld,' he remarked, buttering a scone. 'Hasn't given us a hint as to _why_…'

'Stop hinting, Seamus, I won't tell you,' she replied, grinning at him, and even Dean gave a soft laugh. 'It's Harry's business who he tells. But something bad did happen and he's… well, you've seen. And of course Hermione's worrying about him, which makes it all even worse, and then there's all this prejudice and stuff in the newspaper which makes them all even more upset…'

'Prejudice?' Seamus frowned. 'I think I remember Ron saying something about that… against Muggleborns. Load of bollocks.'

'Try reading today's Quidditch section,' Ginny replied grimly, before turning back to Dean. He was frowning very slightly; just the merest trace of a line on his forehead. She traced a finger over it, and it vanished. 'So I'm sorry if I can't spend as much time with you as I'd like,' she finished softly, 'but…'

'Your friends need you,' he said, with a short sigh that was only a few steps away from a groan. 'I know. And I know I'd do the same thing, and…'

'Do you forgive me?'

He frowned properly then. 'I guess I have to.'

Relief broke out in waves, and Ginny let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. 'Good,' she said, and leant forwards to kiss his forehead, to the rapturous applause of the third years behind them.

* * *

**A/N:** '_Ambages'_ means 'rigmarole, enigma, circumlocution.' Nope, I have no idea what such a charm would do. I just like picking interesting Latin words to play with!

Well, that's all. For two weeks! I'll miss you all… just remember, and rants at Lou you wish me to pass on can easily be passed on. Just leave them in a review. REVIEW! Yes, that's what you're meant to be doing now. Do it.


	29. What's Love?

**Chapter 28: What's Love?**

**Disclaimer:** For the three people who've been living in caves under the ground for the past decade and haven't heard: Harry Potter and all related things belong to JK Rowling. (In case they aren't thinking very clearly after their years of being a hermit - I am not JK Rowling)

**Thanks for 977 reviews goes to: **Arafel2, blah-blah-blah-blah-I-want-this-to-be-the-longest-author-name-ever-thank-you-very-much, finally-defeated, willowfairy, Alyssium, lil, Mystique Rain, Go10, jules37, saraiyu, kessi1011, …..., foxer, Madam Midnight, KrystyWroth, Alexi Lupin, A Genuine Freakshow, JoeBob139, ablakevh, brettley, insidiae, Storm1079, PsYcHoJo, ToOtHpIcK (x2), mesmer, citcat299, PinkTribeChick (x2), Pheonix (x2), Krispykreme1468, Meghan, Nikki, Sarah, Plaidly Lush, PhAnToM-ChiK, Erica G., Kawaii-Kanna, jaderabbit, SPARKLING EYES, Slytheravengriffinpuff Sparkling Cherries, J Deann, Saotoshi (x2) Crystella, Kristina, distelMalfoy, pkchihuahuas, Genevive Jones (x2), CuTeNcRaZy, draconas, Loving, Krispykreme1468, annikodomo, heavengurl899.

**A/N:** And I'm back!

I had plenty of relaxation time, involving lots of clothes/back-to-school shopping. I bought… well, not exactly a poncho. Kind of the bastard child of a poncho and a duffel coat. A ponffel, if you will. It's shaped like a poncho, but it has sleeves and duffel-coat toggles fastening the front. Wonderfully eccentric and lovely.

But of course, you don't want to hear about my clothes shopping – you want to hear my results. And the new chapter of course, but that comes after the A/N.

It turns out I was worrying for no reason. Got 9 A stars (which is usually written A with an asterisk, but the site removes asterisks for some odd reason.). One each in English, English Literature, Chemistry, Biology, Physics, Maths, French, Latin and History. (For the non-English and generally confused – too many people were getting As, so they decided to add a new grade above an A and call it an A star. The A star grade only exists in these exams, rather randomly. It's like a super-A. An A with bells on.) The glorious Lou also did well in her exams – different exams to mine; AS levels, which I'll be taking next year. She got 2 As and 2 Bs, which is a wonderful result. Congratulate her too!

Oh, and regarding Slytheravengryffinpuff's question: I don't actually watch Buffy (not for lack of trying on the part of Sophie, who once persuaded me into watching a six hour Buff-a-thon!) That episode sounds interesting though; I'll look into it and perhaps borrow the video (again, from Sophie, who's just as much of a Buffy fanatic as I am a Pottermaniac.)

DistelMalfoy, I've also not read 'We'll Always Have Paris' (though it is on my to-read list, and has been languishing there for a shamefully long time). 'To Kill A Mockingbird' was one of my English texts last year, and it was one of my inspirations for the prejudice component of the plot, although obviously the prejudice in that and the prejudice in this won't be similar (long-term deep-seated racial prejudice versus short-term blood prejudice artificially instilled by Voldie.)

Thirdly, krispykreme1468 – sure, you can use the pulling-wings-in detail!

With all that out of the way, an **important announcement**. Remember the fanfic involving Macbeth I mentioned a few chapters back? I'm ready to start uploading, and the first chapter should go up next **Monday**. I'm hoping to run Macbeth and Fallen simultaneously, though I've no idea what my workload's going to be like this year at school and I might not be able to get both done, or I might need to move updates to a different day. Therefore the first few weeks will be a kind of pilot or test to see if it's manageable, and the update schedule of Macbeth will be very much subject to change. Fallen, however, will be my priority and will definitely run every Friday, every week, same as it's always done (apart from occasional breaks.)

And I think that's everything, so on to the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_Love is a device invented by bank managers to make us overdrawn._

**_Arnold Rimmer, Red Dwarf_**

* * *

Much to Ron's annoyance, Ginny and Dean continued being affectionate all the way through breakfast. He threw Dean particularly tense frowns whenever the other boy gave his sister a kiss on the cheek, or a hug, or even just a touch that lingered just too long. Dean appeared oblivious to Ron's discomfort; Ginny noticed but, apart from a reproachful look, paid him no attention.

Harry and Hermione found it all rather amusing.

The five of them – Ron, Harry, Hermione, Ginny and Dean – ended up leaving the table together, heading back to the common room for the half-hour of relaxation they usually got before Hermione started pestering them over their homework. Ginny and Dean were holding hands as they walked; Ron's eyes almost never left them.

This carried on, with Harry and Hermione making idle conversation, until they reached the portrait of Honoria Nutcombe on the third floor, when Ginny paused a moment and glanced thoughtfully down a corridor to the left.

'What is it, Ginny?' Ron was quick to ask.

She paused a moment before answering. 'Would you three mind if Dean and I left you to go back to the tower on your own?' Her gaze flicked up to Dean with a cheeky smile; Dean grinned back, figuring out instantly what was on his girlfriend's mind. Ron fidgeted for a moment, a dark look on his face, and opened his mouth to say something before Hermione cut him off.

'That's fine, Ginny, you two go and have fun,' she said before Ron could object, giving the couple a warm smile. 'Come on, let's get back to the tower.' She gave Harry a glance, grabbed Ron by his elbow and headed off firmly in the direction of the tower. Harry watched Ginny and Dean hurry down the side corridor before following his friends. Ron was protesting.

'You know I don't like Ginny and Dean-'

'Ginny is almost sixteen,' Hermione cut in sharply. 'And that makes her certainly old enough to be snogging Dean Thomas in a corridor, or an old classroom, or a broom closet if she chooses to. She does _not_,' this was punctuated by a decisive stab of Hermione's finger, 'need you flitting around being over-protective.'

Ron folded his arms, looking sulky. 'I know that, but I still don't like her dating.'

'She's perfectly capable of taking care of herself,' Hermione reminded him, 'and besides, you know Dean. You share a dormitory with him! You know he's not going to hurt Ginny, so what's the problem?'

Fidgeting, Ron tried not to meet Hermione's questioning gaze. 'I don't know,' he admitted eventually, 'I just don't like it.'

Hermione sighed, exasperated. 'You can like it or not like it as you wish, just as long as you stop glaring at them every time they so much as look at each other.'

'I don't mean to,' Ron protested, but was cut off as they reached the top of the spiral staircase just in time to meet Professor McGonagall, who was about to descend it.

'Ah, Mr Potter,' she said, giving Harry the hint of a smile. 'Just the person I've been looking for.'

Harry's first impulse was to ask if something bad had happened, but he realised almost instantaneously that Professor McGonagall wouldn't be smiling if she had bad news. Or if he were in trouble, for that matter. 'Yes, Professor?' he asked tentatively.

'I assume you've been wondering who the Gryffindor Quidditch captain is this year?' she asked. Harry was rather surprised to realise he'd completely forgotten about it, but yes, Alicia had left now, so a new captain was needed…

McGonagall was fumbling in a pocket of her robe. 'I'm sorry we've taken such a long time over it, but there's a rule that any previously suspended players can't become captain, which we obviously overruled due to the unfair nature of the suspension… it took some time to make the exception official. Ah, here it is,' she said, and pulled from her pocket a small, shiny, crimson badge, which she held out towards Harry.

Written on it, in gold writing, were the words _Quidditch Captain_.

Harry's heart did a funny kind of twist, as though it had its own miniature Firebolt and was flying around the interior of his ribcage chasing a Snitch. 'Me?' he asked incredulously.

'Of course, Mr Potter. You are, after all, the most senior member of the team, are you not? And one of the best Seekers Hogwarts has seen in years.' She smiled kindly at him. 'I am sure we can expect great things of the Quidditch team this year, can we not?'

Suddenly speechless, he reached out to take the badge from McGonagall's hand. 'I… I'll try.'

She nodded at him, a look of unmistakeable pride in her eyes, and a sudden wave of absolute euphoria washed over Harry. Quidditch captain! Tryouts and practices and pep talks before matches…

McGonagall must have said something else, but it was drowned in his own excitement; the next thing he was aware of – other than the badge in his hand – was Hermione giving what sounded almost like a squeal and hugging him.

'Harry, that's amazing!' she enthused. 'That's a lot of responsibility, you know, you've got to arrange practices and tryouts and organise the team, it's _brilliant_…'

He grinned at his friend. 'Yeah, I know, I hadn't even remembered there was going to be a new captain…' It was amusing, really, that Hermione would be so enthusiastic about something Quidditch related. But of course, it was responsibility and success as well. Ron was the one who was passionate about Quidditch…

Which made it odd that he hadn't said anything yet.

Harry glanced towards Ron, and met an oddly blank face, looking down at his feet, biting his bottom lip, and belatedly a memory of first year swam to the front of Harry's mind: a memory of what Ron had seen in the Mirror of Erised. _I'm holding the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup – I'm Quidditch captain, too!_

As if he felt Harry's gaze, Ron glanced up, and managed a rather weak smile. 'Well done, Harry,' he said, managing to sound almost genuine. 'That's really… well done.'

'Thanks…' Harry said, not knowing what to say. 'Listen, Ron…'

'We should get back to the common room,' Ron interrupted, turning away. 'I've got that Defence essay to do… you should probably get planning tryouts, too.'

With rather stiff shoulders, Ron headed off. Harry followed, fingering his new badge and trying to figure out how on earth he was going to sort this one out.

* * *

'What's love?'

Hermione's hand twitched, almost puncturing the piece of parchment with the sharp point of the quill she was holding. 'What?'

'Love,' Draco repeated. 'I don't know what that one is either.'

He raised an expectant eyebrow at Hermione, who frowned for a moment. Certainly, Draco's question had taken her by surprise. Of course, love was an emotion like any other, like hate and fear and friendship and compassion and all the complex ones they'd discussed. But somehow she hadn't expected him to ask about it, in the same way you don't expect a five-year-old to ask about calculus.

'It's rather complicated,' she began, not knowing quite what to say. 'And it can be used to mean quite a lot of different things too… which meaning do you want?'

'Any,' he said with a shrug, then, 'All of them.'

Hermione paused for a moment, trying to think of how best to go about the mammoth subject. Love could be anything, from the kind of epic romances which were written into legend and covered centuries and continents with its passion, to the feeling a mother felt for her child, to the feeling she felt for Harry and Ron, to the feeling she'd feel for a plate full of her mum's special choc-chip-cookies. Which was probably the best place to start.

'The easiest definition of love,' she began slowly, keeping her eyes on the parchment while she thought, 'is that it's liking something a lot. So I might say that I loved reading, and Harry might say that he loved Quidditch.'

Draco tipped his head on one side, considering. 'So I could say that I loved flying?' he asked eventually.

'If you really like it, then you could,' Hermione replied, before frowning. 'Wait… do you mean flying on a broomstick, or with… you know… wings?'

'Wings, of course,' Draco said with a smile. 'It's nothing like a broomstick. It's… It feels like…' He raised his hands, as if trying to explain himself through gesture, then stopped with a frown. 'I can't put it into words.'

'Try,' Hermione asked, leaning forward over the table. Draco bit his lip, opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally shook his head.

'It's no good, I don't think I know the right words,' he said, and Hermione felt a twinge of disappointment. 'What else can love mean?'

'It can be…' She paused. 'It's complicated.'

'Try,' Draco asked, and it was such a perfect mirror of her earlier request that Hermione was slightly startled, then laughed.

'The problem is there's lots of different kinds of love,' she said. 'There's the love you feel for your friends, for one. That's…' Hermione closed her eyes for a moment; pictured Harry and Ron, and tried to put words to it all. 'When you really care about someone, and you don't want them to get hurt or upset. You'll do things to make them happy that you wouldn't do for other people, and in the extreme – when they're your best friends, and you really, really love them, you could even die for them.' She paused for a moment and didn't meet his eyes. 'You want to spend time with them, and you miss them if they're away too long. You worry about them being in danger or upset or depressed… and you're willing to overlook their flaws.'

She ground to a halt, then, and her cheeks tinged slightly red when she realised what a poor description she'd given. Loving a friend was a lot more complicated than that – but how could she explain it? And how could she hep Draco to understand it, even if she could explain it?

Draco nodded slowly. 'So that's part of friendship?' he asked, and Hermione nodded mutely. 'Okay. What other kinds of love?'

'Familial love,' she said. 'The love you'd feel for your parents, or the love parents feel for their children. That's quite similar to friendship-love in some ways. Mothers would usually die for their children; probably fathers would too. But it's different to friendship, because your parents protect you and provide for you and take care of you when you're sick, while parents love their children because… because they're their children, I suppose. It's hard to explain…'

Draco looked as though he didn't quite comprehend it all, but he nodded anyway. 'What does it feel like?' he asked.

'Like…' she began, and paused, frowning. She picked the quill up from the tabletop and twirled it between her fingers, picturing her own mum and dad. 'Well, from a child's point of view it feels… grateful. You're grateful to them for what they do, and you care about them, of course, and you want them to be happy and healthy and so on…' She sighed. 'It's hard to explain.'

Draco nodded, frowning, and gestured to the piece of parchment that Hermione had so nearly stabbed a hole in earlier. On the left side of the parchment was a list of the emotions Draco had at least a working knowledge of; on the right were those he didn't understand at all. Simpler emotions like _fear, anger, surprise, liking, disliking, pain_ dominated the left, along with a scattering of things like compassion. The right had all the complex ones: _friendship, loyalty, caring, courage, hatred._ 'Better write it down on the right-hand side, I think.' Draco said.

Hermione did so, writing _Love (familial)_ in her neat script and adding _Love (friendly)_ below it. After a moment's thought, she added _Love (liking something)_ to the left; he'd understood that.

'What about romantic love?' Draco asked, and Hermione's quill almost went through the parchment for the second time. 'I've been reading more, lately, and it keeps talking about it in books, but it never explains it properly.'

'Books generally don't,' Hermione said, biting her lip. 'Romantic love is… completely different. I've never really been in love, so I don't really know, not properly…' She fidgeted in her chair; Draco looked curious.

'You went to the Yule Ball with Krum-'

'Yes, but I didn't _love_ him,' Hermione pointed out. 'I mean, he was kind and sweet and everything, and I liked him, but love… romantic love…' She sighed. 'It's complicated. A lot of people have tried to describe it, and everyone comes up with something different. I'll… I'll write it down on the right-hand-side for now, and explain it to you later, when you understand some of the other kinds of love. Sorry,' she added, feeling oddly as though she'd failed him.

'It's fine,' he said, looking only mildly disappointed. 'Explain it later.'

* * *

'You're forgetting the Transfiguration corridor,' Hermione complained. 'Anyone attacking the school could come straight along that, bypass the Room of Requirement corridor, come out near Flitwick's office, and then there's only those Bewildering Hexes and Harry between them and Gryffindor Tower.'

Ron leant over the map of the seventh-floor, frowning as he peered at the diagram. 'She's right, you know,' he said.

'How would they get into the Transfiguration corridor anyway?' Harry asked, frowning. 'There aren't any stairs leading up to it; they'd have to pass Gryffindor Tower to get into it…'

It was Monday morning, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson was in full swing. As part of their lessons on Strategy, Delaney had split the class into small groups and given each group a map of one of the floors of Hogwarts. 'Imagine the school is under attack,' he had told them, and the class had fidgeted nervously at the thought. 'You have to plan a defence strategy for the floor to which you have been given the map. You can set up any spells you want, as long as they aren't illegal, and position the members of your group around the floor to fight the attackers. To make things more interesting, I've marked a specific place on each map with a red x; this is the place the attackers are trying to get to. Consider this in your defence of the floor.'

It was, unsurprisingly, quite a fun lesson, involving a lot of loud chatter and creativity. Hermione had already come up with dozens of spells; anyone hostile walking along the Divination Corridor could expect to be frozen, burnt or shrunk to the size of an ant; have their knees turned backwards, their noses grown so large that they couldn't raise their head, or their feet temporarily detached from their body, among other inventive hexes. Harry and Ron had delighted in carefully placing them so that, for example, after they started dancing uncontrollably they should (with any luck) end up on the patch of floor they'd Transfigured into spikes.

Currently they were considering the Transfiguration corridor. 'It would be difficult to get into,' Hermione conceded. 'The only way I can see is through the window…'

'The window?' Ron echoed incredulously. 'Who's going to think to climb in the seventh-floor of a castle?'

'A wizard on a broomstick who knows full well that the Transfiguration corridor is less likely to be covered,' Hermione said darkly. 'It is unlikely that they'd think to use the window, I concede, and they couldn't get a large force up there without being noticed too soon – the window is a tight fit.'

'Some spells to stop them getting in would be good,' Harry said thoughtfully. 'Do you know any…?'

'To stop people getting through a door, yes,' Hermione mused. 'Through a window? Only the basic closing charms, the kind you could open easily with Alohamora… I'd have to think about it.'

There was a moment's pause; then Harry spoke. 'Okay, we might not be able to prevent them getting in that window,' he said slowly. 'And we're all positioned too far away to do anything if someone does come through it. But there's nothing really important around the Transfiguration corridor, and there won't be many attackers. So what could work is if we built a trap – not curses to incapacitate someone, but a trap. A cage that dropped from the ceiling or something, or something that glued them to the spot…'

'That's a brilliant idea!' Hermione enthused. 'And some kind of alert system, one that'd ring a bell or set off an alarm when the attackers came in the window, so we cold get to them before they had a chance to free themselves… hang on a second…' She fell onto a scrap of parchment, feverishly writing things down. Harry and Ron knew better than to interrupt her when she was like this, and simply waited for a minute, glancing over the plan so far and double-checking the details, while Hermione schemed and plotted.

'How's it going?' came a voice – Delaney's. The professor regarded the scribbling Hermione with interest before bending over the map, dark-brown eyes skimming over the details they'd marked on.

'That's interesting,' Delaney said at length, 'the way that Drowsiness charm is placed so the attacker will fall asleep right on top of that Disabling Potion. It'll be much more effective, that way; when the attacker wakes up they'll be almost incapable of movement, rather than just a bit stiff as you'd expect if they'd only walked into it. Was that placement intentional, or were you just lucky?' he asked, giving them an amused smile.

Ron half-raised a tentative hand. 'It was my idea, sir,' he said, and Delaney rewarded him with a wide smile.

'Excellent, Mr Weasley, five points for Gryffindor.'

While Ron was beaming at this pronouncement, Hermione gave a satisfied sigh and put her quill down. 'Finished,' she said proudly.

Delaney gave her a nod. 'Finished what?' he asked.

'A trap,' Hermione said with an enthusiastic smile. 'For the Transfiguration corridor. We realised that there wasn't any defence on that corridor, and that while a large force couldn't get in that way, a small force could get through the windows on broomsticks…'

Delaney frowned. 'Possibly. Carry on.'

'Well, we thought the best thing to do would be to put some kind of trap there. It's a sufficiently small possibility that they'd enter that way, but it could also be very dangerous, as one or two attackers could come in that way and get straight to Gryffindor Tower, bypassing most of our defence. Especially as none of us are stationed near that corridor; they could easily get in and disable any hexes we placed in that corridor by stealth, and then sneak up on us from behind. So we came up with this; it's a two-part spell. The first part will stick their feet to the ground, effectively trapping them, and it should take a good few minutes to undo. The second part is an alarm spell which alerts one of us to the intruder.'

Delaney nodded and scanned the piece of paper. 'This looks like it would be effective,' he said eventually. 'But I feel one of you should be stationed nearer the corridor, just in case.'

'There's ample time…' Hermione began, but she was cut off.

'How about you, Miss Granger? If we put you… say, here, at the junction of these two corridors…'

'But it's very unlikely an attack would come from there,' Hermione protested, 'and I really feel I'd be more useful…'

'I'm sure these boys and the spells can keep your previous position guarded,' Delaney said with a smile. 'In fact… Mr Weasley, if you move over a corridor you'll be in prime position to defend that staircase.'

'But professor…' Hermione began again, before falling silent and biting her lip.

'Of course, you can do it whichever ay you want,' Delaney said, 'but personally, I prefer my version. Consider it. And keep up the good work, boys.'

He have them a wide smile before turning and going on to another group, leaving Hermione frowning after him. She was beginning to get very suspicious…

* * *

**A/N: **You see that middle scene? The definition-of-love scene? Not one of the three betae who actually did this chapter touched anything on that scene. It was quite worrying; I prefer it when people are pointing out errors left and right. If they don't, I worry that all the errors are still in there.

Anyway, shouldn't be worrying. Now review, or I'll make you do my homework (which admittedly consists of 'find a word that's changed its meaning', because I've only been back one day and most of that was administration.) But I'll get plenty more next week. And I'll see you on Monday with Macbeth, and next Friday with Fallen.

Review!


	30. Aberddewin

**Chapter 29: Aberddewin**

**Disclaimer:** To paraphrase philosophy: I dreamt once that I was JKRowling. When I awoke, I wondered: am I a fanfic writer who dreamt that I was JKRowling, or am I JKRowling now dreaming that I am a fanfic writer. This taken into account, it is impossible for me to say that I am not JKRowling. Although if this is a dream, it doesn't matter anyway, and I could say really odd things up here like _Orange the Smurfing toadstools before I infect you with my bubblewrap_, or _Beetles only dance the hula when the pizza's in a mood_, or that I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters etc. JKRowling does, and actually, I'm not her. Didn't even dream I was her. Though I did once have a dream about Draco giving Harry and Hermione Christmas presents, tastefully wrapped in _Potter Stinks_ wrapping paper. Disturbingly, I think he gave them both a velvet skirt. Never trust your subconscious.

**Thanks for 1019 reviews goes to: **ablakevh, samhaincat, Saotoshi, heavengurl899, dairy, Rebecca15, DeLany, kessi1011, Genevieve Jones, KrystyWroth, draconas, foxer, OBXglider, Saraiyu, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-I-want-this-to-be-the-longest-author-name-ever-thank-you-very-much, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, Slytheravengryffinpuff, Alexi Lupin, willowfairy, Krispykreme1468, Plaidly Lush, annikodomo, Madam Midnight, finally-defeated, me, glacial, Flexi Lexi, Crystella, Kiyoko, RedWitch1, SleepingDragonsDie, Go10, jules37, Nikki, midnight-blur, angeli1angeli, PinkTribeChick, deathdefiance, brettley, JoeBob1379, Storm079, A Genuine Freakshow.

**A/N:** A large amount of my previous week has consisted of grabbing my friends by the shoulders and jumping up and down while squealing 'Guess what! Fallen's got a thousand reviews!' Which, as you may have already noticed, it has done. What can I say but a massive **Thank You** to everyone who's read and supported me so far? You've all been brilliant, whether you've reviewed faithfully every week or only once. Everything you've said has entertained me, interested me, told me something I didn't know, complimented me, intrigued me, and given me the confidence to actually carry on writing. I really mean it – one of the best things about writing this story is tumbling out of bed at some unthinkable hour on a Saturday morning to read the first-in reviews. (And then, of course, going back to sleep, to dream of next week's chapter!) Thank you!

You may also have noticed that the first chapter of Macbeth is up; and the Monday/Friday schedule seems to be working so far! (Could I ask – did I send an update notice about Macbeth to the people on my Fallen e-mail update list? I can't remember if I did or not…) The school workload doesn't seem to be too vile so far, especially now I have free periods, which makes me quite hopeful that I can juggle two simultaneous fics.

Anyway, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_Ystyriwch: a oes dihareb_

_a ddwed y gwirionedd hwn:_

_Gwerth cynnydd yw gwarth cenedl_

_a'i hedd yw ei hangau hi_

(Translation:)

_Consider: there is a proverb_

_that tells this truth:_

_The value of progress is a nation's shame_

_and its peace is its death_

**_Gerallt Lloys Owan, from _****_Etifeddiaeth_**

* * *

Aberddewin was a pretty little town, the kind of place you found where suburbs met countryside and any change was slow and gradual. North Wales, as if that wasn't obvious from the name. It was an hour's journey from the coast in those Muggle contraptions called _cars_, slightly shorter by broom, instantaneous by Floo or Apparition. The kind of place tourists came for a relaxing week with their children. River, library, park, hedgerows, fields, trees, sky.

It had been founded in the Middle Ages by some of the most liberal Pureblood families. Their intention had been to create a place where wizard could live side-by-side with Muggle – keeping the existence of magic a secret, naturally, but in all other ways treating them as equals to wizardkind. The town's name reflected this: Aberddewin, which in the Welsh tongue meant 'mouth of magic river'. The Muggles believed this to be a reference to the river that flowed through the town, but the wizards who founded it had a double meaning in mind. This foundation, this first generation of Aberddewin, was the mouth or spring of a river of magic and wizardry, which would flow through the ages in harmony and tolerance towards the Muggles who were their neighbours.

But Pureblood had married Muggle, and half-blood had married half-blood, and Mudbloods had been born and become part of the community, until the wizarding bloodlines were hopelessly corrupted. Which, of course, made the town a perfect target.

The massacre began at sunset.

It was one of those particularly vivid sunsets you only get in late autumn, early winter: the ones where the daytime is slowly dying and knows it. The ones where the sun looks like a disc of flawless gold, perfect light, as if it's trying to make a last defiant stand – _I am alive_ – even as the clouds above turn pink and orange and blood-red, last light soaked into cotton wool.

The Muggles and Mudbloods did the same: tried to make a last defence, a last attempt to cling onto life, even as the light faded from their eyes and they crumpled to the floor. It was Avada Kedavra for the first, the lucky ones who got a quick painless death with time only to breathe in air for a scream that was never sounded. When the defences had fallen and the villagers were reduced to helpless, quivering victims; then the violence begins, the slow bleeding and the Cruciatius and the Dark Arts and the pain.

Night fell and Aberddewin burnt.

The hedgerows crackled and seared with flame, driving sparrow and magpie and blackbird to the air, their nests abandoned to the licking fire. Corpses floated in the river, eyes wide and unseeing. In the park, children lay dead on the roundabout, on the slide, blood trickling across the metal. Swings had been turned into gallows.

The library, standing tall and proud in the town square, was being gutted: the well-loved books piled into the centre of the square, a pyre, to burn the people who once had eagerly thumbed their pages. Mainly corpses: some alive and bound with thick ropes, screaming or pleading or crying or too dazed to do anything. Of course, the wizards and witches among them have had their wands snapped in two, preventing them from fighting back. It will be fun, the Death Eaters think, to watch them burn.

Lucius is watching; a supposedly anonymous figure in the same cloak and hood and mask as all the others, but everyone knows who he is, recognises his build or his stance and gives him the proper respect. The Inner Circle know _what_ he is, the others – those now levitating the books from the library or taunting their victims – know _who_ he is. They are all afraid.

Fear is a useful emotion, Lucius muses as he watches the book-pyre being built; a useful one, because you can manipulate people with it. Make them feel afraid and they will do anything. Like that woman, one of the captives, a Mudblood if he recognises her correctly. On her knees, crying, holding bloodied and rope-bound wrists to her captors and pleading. He can hear her voice clearly. 'Anything, I'll do anything, just please don't do this, don't kill me.' That is fear, and it has led to begging and loss of dignity. Fear can also be used to blackmail people – do what I say, or I will do something you fear – and you can control them. More subtle than Imperius.

He remembers teaching Draco these things; long lists of emotions that others felt and what they were useful for. _Fear can be used for manipulation; you can control most people if you find the thing they fear and use it. _He remembers being taught these things by his own father.

The woman is being tortured, now. He hears her screaming, punctuated by brief pauses, soft moans.

Harming people is an instinct for him. A need, like hunger or thirst; a lust that needs fulfilling, and this massacre is a feast. Except that feasts imply emotion, and for him there is none.

All the books have now been levitated out of the library; the pyre is done. He hears the woman wail, sees her take refuge in a friend's shoulder, a dark-haired woman who tries to hug the Mudblood back. A Muggle? She is defiant: she spits at a Death Eater, anonymous in robe and mask, who casts Cruciatius on her for her trouble. She doesn't scream.

This is another oddity of humans: they do not all react to things in the same way. Half-Fallens, if they have the same information and equal powers of logic, will all do the same thing in any given situation. They have the same instinct, after all, the same lack of these messy human emotions. Yet look at these women: they are both in the same position, both have the same knowledge of their imminent death by fire, yet one weeps and begs and cries and the other spits and swears and holds her head high. Why the difference?

Emotion, of course. Lucius has never understood why two humans can feel differently in any given situation. It is nonsensical.

The Death Eaters gather in a circle around the books now, chanting and jeering at the victims as they're levitated onto the pyre of books. The dark-haired Muggle shouts back, but cannot be heard. Bound tightly by the leg-locker curse, they cannot escape. They are doomed.

The corpses of those who were killed in the town square are added to the pyre, strewn atop the books along with the living. More screaming, more sobbing, more defiance. An _incendio_ sets the books alight, and the Death Eaters shriek in something like joy as the firelight flickers off their masks.

This is politics. It is Voldemort's first attack of this size; the Death Eaters are excited, overjoyed at the large-scale murder of man and woman and Muggle and Mudblood. It would please the old Pureblood families too: the ones who had not joined the founding of Aberddewin had been very much against the idea of living alongside Muggles. They had always supported the eviction of the non-wizards and Mudbloods – a town founded by wizards should remain a purely wizarding town - but the Ministry had opposed it. Voldemort had done it, and there would be new recruits soon from the families who had campaigned for the cleansing.

The pyre was burning properly now, and the first acrid scents of burning flesh were filling the air. Flushed beneath their masks, the Death Eaters were silent, watching with rapt fascination as the flames licked higher and the corpses caught alight, as the high weeping wails were cut off to leave only the crackle of the fire.

Afraid, unafraid, defiant or pleading – it made no difference now. They were dead, and their bodies would soon be ashes. Nothing else was important.

* * *

'Don't Potter and Weasley ever get suspicious?'

Hermione looked up from the Arithmancy book on her lap. 'Of what?'

Draco made a vague gesture that appeared to take in the whole library. 'This,' he said. 'Don't they notice that you spend hours in here?'

He watched as she leant back in her chair, considering; the same face she got when he asked her about emotions, or when a teacher asked her to work out a problem. Eyebrows down, slightly furrowed, eyes slight narrowed; she liked to glance upwards too, as if reading an answer written on the ceiling above her. He was used to that expression.

'They do,' Hermione said, 'and they have asked about it. But… well, you know what I'm like. I've always spent extra time in the library doing research or schoolwork or just reading. True, I am spending a lot more time here now... Ron asked about it, and I said I had homework and NEWTs were coming and he should start taking school more seriously too. The kind of thing I always say.' She offered Draco a somewhat apologetic half-smile; he returned it with a proper one.

'And that worked?' he asked.

'Well, Ron hasn't pushed it. I don't think either of them is really going to bother as long as I don't start abandoning them. In fact…' Hermione glanced guiltily at her watch. 'I should probably go in a bit. I haven't seen them since lunch; Harry was organising Quidditch things after dinner and he asked Ron to go along with him.'

'Flaunting his Captain's badge under Weasley's nose?' Draco asked. 'Is that wise? I'm surprised Weasley didn't go off in a sulk and refuse to speak to him again.'

Hermione was momentarily speechless. 'How did you know that?' she asked in amazement.

'Know what?'

'That Harry's Quidditch Captain; he only found out this morning. And that Ron's jealous.' Hermione clarified.

'Well it isn't exactly secret knowledge,' Draco pointed out, as one would to a particularly slow five-year-old. 'The Quidditch fanatics and Potter-worshippers have been buzzing with the news all day. And it's fairly obvious Weasley would be jealous. He's _always_ been jealous of Potter, ever since he became Seeker, in fact. And who could forget their massive fight during the Triwizard Tournament? The whole school was talking about nothing else for weeks.'

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. 'I knew people talked about Harry, she began, slowly and incredulously, 'but they can't talk about us that much. I mean, I could understand talking about being Quidditch Captain, and they always talk when there's things in the newspaper or when they think he's the Heir of Slytherin or something, but about having a _fight_? And being _jealous_?'

'Potter's famous, in case you haven't noticed,' Draco said wryly. 'People _are_ going to want to discuss him, and talk about him, and dissect his private life at great length. Except he hasn't had any major articles in Witch Weekly, none that anyone's told me about anyway. Yet.'

'That's…' Hermione paused. 'Why didn't I know about this?'

'It's not some massive conspiracy, you know. People talk quite openly.' Draco shook his head, the rather bubbly feeling he identified as amusement dancing just below his breastbone. 'You can't say you've never noticed people talking about Potter?'

'Well, sometimes…' Hermione was cut off by the rather startling entrance of a tawny owl, swooping low across the ground from a hidden window in their secluded corner. It perched on the table by Draco; pecked his shoulder.

'Raphael!' he chastised it in a whisper. 'You know you aren't meant to come into the library!' The owl gave a quiet but urgent hoot, holding its leg out towards Draco.

'That's not your owl, is it?' Hermione asked, frowning.

'My mother's,' Draco answered shortly, untying the scroll from Raphael's leg. 'It's a good thing we're in a hidden corner…'

He unrolled the parchment, watched the text change beneath his hands and started reading.

_My dearest son,_

I haven't been able to write until now; your father has been watching me recently, and even with the charm on the letters I was too afraid he'd catch me while I was still writing the separate letter. He knows I'm writing to you, but he hasn't been able to prove it yet. Given time, I think he should slacken his attention. Don't be slow or lax in replying; he won't see anything more than a frivolous ramble from Pansy's mother in that letter and it may help assure him that all my letters are as meaningless.

He was summoned half an hour ago – I think he was expecting it – and left; I took the opportunity to write. I may not have much time, so I'll have to be quick.

Emotions are never easy at the best of times; at the worst of times they can be positively impossible, and I know that this can't be an easy time for you be any means. I admit: I was afraid you might become depressed. Many of the accounts mention things like that, but – as far as your letter shows me – you seem to be coping. I wish I could be there to see; how often are you happy, how often sad, how often afraid and excited and content.

This isn't helping you. I know. I'm sorry.

Trust can be a difficult thing to grasp, but your definition was perfect – and almost poetic! If it was Hermione who helped you to understand it, then she is certainly a good teacher. Do you trust her? I suppose you must, to an extent, to talk to her; and at any rate it would be unfair to expect an answer.

You're right: friendship is complicated, and I can't offer any better description than the one you gave to me. I hope you'll know it when you find it (and I hope the same of love) but I can't say for sure. Some take to emotions better than others; but you are learning well, and I'm optimistic that in time you'll come to understand friendship, even have friends of your own. And love, and have a love of your own.

I have no idea when Lucius will be back; I had better finish here and send this quickly. I still have to write the false letter, and depending on the length of the meeting he could return at any time. I'm sorry. I wish I could say more; offer more advice.

Your loving mother,

Narcissa.

Draco finished the letter to find himself smiling and Hermione studiously examining her Arithmancy book. Not very studiously, obviously, because the instant he put the letter down she was speaking, eyes fixed on him.

'Does she have any news?'

The question was implicit – about the spy; about your father – and Draco shook his head. 'Father's at a meeting, and he's paying really close attention to her letters. That's pretty much all.'

Hermione frowned. 'Are you using an encoding spell? Or something to stop him reading it? Because I know a book-'

Draco cut in. 'Hermione, may I remind you that both I and my mother are Slytherins?' he asked. 'Of course we're using an encoding spell. One she found in her archives…'

'Really?' Hermione asked, leaning forward with a light in her eyes. 'What kind of spell?'

Draco picked up the letter, let it change and flicked his eyes over it; there was nothing in there Hermione couldn't be shown. 'You can read it, and see for yourself,' he said, dropping it on the table and letting the cover letter return.

Hermione leant over, cautiously at first and then with interest. 'Delphine… is that a false identity? What code is used, an Arithmantic one? It'd have to have a very difficult code to stop your father working it out…'

'Not Arithmancy,' Draco said, 'just a charm. Try touching it.' With a puzzled expression, Hermione did so – gingerly – and her eyes widened when the words changed before her eyes.

'The change is triggered when someone touches it and experiences an emotion,' Draco explained, and for a moment quite seriously worried that Hermione's eyes would fall out of her head.

'That's a brilliant idea!' Hermione said, almost reverently. 'He'll never be able to read the letter then… I assume he doesn't know about this charm?'

'No,' Draco replied, 'I only found out about it when Mother wrote to me.'

There was a pause, in which Hermione glanced guiltily down at the letter and then back to Draco.

'You can read it if you want to, you know,' Draco said, feeling suddenly slightly awkward about it. Hermione appeared to deliberate for a second before her eyes flickered to the parchment, reading quickly.

Her cheeks were red-tinged by the time she'd finished. 'I think…' she began, then stopped. 'What's your mother like?'

This seemed an odd question to Draco, who had to think a moment before answering. 'She's always been quite quiet, normally. Formal, too, though I think she picked that up from my father. And me. She always wanted to spend time with me, even just in the same room as me; she wanted to be involved.' Draco paused again. 'She didn't love my father. I think she loved me, though; I'm her son.'

Hermione bit her lip and glanced away, seemingly wondering what to say. 'Why did she… marry your father?' she asked eventually.

Draco realised he had absolutely no idea. 'I don't know,' he said, and that was that. There was another silence.

Hermione was looking away to one side, through a gap in the bookshelves that surrounded this secluded corner: she suddenly raised an eyebrow in a hard, stern kind of interest. 'Can you see that table over there?' she asked, pointing. Draco angled his head sideways, trying to get a good view through the books. Through a narrow gap, he could see Professor Delaney and a pretty brunette girl. The girl was sitting at a table, and Delaney was standing above her, examining what appeared to be the girl's work.

'I see it,' he said. 'What's so unusual about that?'

'Is that girl Pureblood?' Hermione asked, ignoring Draco's question and confusing him rather. Her eyes were darker than usual and fixed on the girl.

Draco took another good look at her; recognised her. 'Yes. One of the old families. Davies.'

'Just as I thought,' Hermione said with a measure of black satisfaction in her voice. 'Look at the way he's acting.'

He looked again; the professor was currently smiling at the girl as he made a gesture, seemingly explaining something; she was watching in rapt fascination. 'I don't see anything unusual, Hermione…' he said slowly.

'You haven't been with him in Defence lessons,' Hermione said, finally breaking off her gaze. 'There's a definite pattern. He acts like the Purebloods – and some of the half-bloods – can do no wrong, like all their ideas are wonderful. While with the Muggleborns…'

'He's prejudiced?' Draco asked, frowning. 'He could be, I suppose. I know he was in Slytherin, and we do have a higher rate of bias, just because most of the old Pureblood families go in there…'

'He was in Slytherin?' Hermione asked, intrigued. 'I didn't know that… how did you find out?'

'He told me,' Draco began. 'I ran into him one night in the corridors and he asked me how I was… I meant to mention it to you at the time, but I forgot.'

'He asked you how you were? Does he know you?'

Draco shook his head. 'I've heard his name – Pureblood – but never met him.'

'And yet he stopped to talk to you, randomly and with no apparent reason.' Hermione mused.

'He seemed worried about whether I was doing okay as the "Slytherin outcast", as it were,' Draco explained, shrugging. 'I told him I was doing fine, and he said I could come and talk to him if I ever needed to…'

'Do you think…?'

'He's the spy?' Draco finished. 'It's a possibility. Lucius wouldn't choose someone too obviously connected with Voldemort, and Delaney does seem perfectly placed, especially if Father knew he was coming to teach here….'

They shared a significant glance.

'We'll keep an eye on him,' Hermione said slowly. 'See if he's watching you, if he turns up in places he isn't supposed to be, or it's odd for him to be. I mean, in time….' She trailed off, a horrified expression coming to her face. 'Time! I forgot, I'd better go, Harry and Ron will be wondering where I've got to…'

'And then they will be suspicious,' Draco added with a half-smile as Hermione began to throw things into her bag. A small, petulant part of his emotions whined that it wanted her to stay; he ignored it with a feeling of some achievement. He could do that, with the easier emotions; he hoped, someday, to do it with hard ones, like compassion and fear and things like that.

'Bye,' Hermione said, giving him a hurried smile. 'I'll keep an eye on Delaney, okay? You do the same; we'll tell each other if we find anything out…'

Draco nodded, said his goodbye, and watched as she left. He might as well do homework…

Ten minutes later, he heard a voice coming from the entrance to his little corner. 'Draco?'

He started, a feeling like having an ice cube pressed suddenly against the spine, then relaxed as he saw who it was. Ellen, looking almost shy, standing at the entrance to the alcove as though she required his permission to come any closer to his desk.

'Ellen.' He greeted her with a slight nod. 'How did you know I was here? This part's hidden…'

'I saw Hermione Granger leave a few minutes ago. She's one of the DA teachers, so I know her… and then I took a peek through the books and I saw you.' Ellen paused. 'Were you talking to her?'

'Yes,' Draco said; a sharp reply that would allow no further question. Ellen didn't ask, and after a brief silence, Draco enquired, 'Did you want something?'

'Well…' She could only be described as 'squirming'. 'Professor Snape set my class a really hard Potions homework, and I was wondering…'

'If I could help you?' Draco finished. He considered this for a minute. It was only first-year Potions; he could do that easily. The only question was whether he was prepared to help her; if he helped her once she could expect him to help her again with something potentially vital. However, he had already stopped the third years attacking her (after which in fear of Draco's Darker abilities, they'd never tried to curse her again. Though they had insulted her, called her names, stolen her stuff – all the common tactics of a playground bully). So perhaps this would be less important that it would otherwise had been.

And besides, his emotions were begging him to do it, and they were some of the harder ones to say no to.

Draco sighed. 'Bring it over here,' he said. 'I'll see if I can explain.'

* * *

**A/N: **I have to thank the ubiquitous Lou for providing both the name of Aberddewin (a completely fictional town) and this chapter's quote with translation. Diolch, Lou! Now, do I have to beg you to review again? It's very late, I'm tired and incapable of coming up with a decent threat. Review, or I shall curse you with constant exhaustion; how's that?

Review!


	31. Subtlety

**Chapter 30: Subtlety**

**Disclaimer:** I apologise for not making my usual witty disclaimer, but as some of you may already be aware, the Sims 2 (sequel to the best-selling PC game of all time!) has just come out, and I'm currently completely lost in Sim-land. You're lucky I could drag myself away from the game for long enough to update! So I'll just say I don't own Harry Potter _et al_ and get on with the update, shall I?

**Thanks for 1069 reviews goes to: **jules37, kessi1011, Rebecca15, SycoCallie, PhAnToM-ChiK, Go10, midnight-blue, Genevieve Jones, finally-defeated, Storm079, willowfairy, foxer, Chii, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, JoeBob1379, Madam Midnight, rain4life, Hannah, RedWitch1, Alexi Lupin, Nia Redanvi, Plaidly Lush, Kirei Shinobu, A Genuine Freakshow, brettley, ablakevh, draconas, SilverMoonset, Saraiyu, Nikki, Meghan, Slytheravengryffinpuff, Flexi Lexi, Sparkling Cherries, Stoneage Woman (x5), ToOtHpIcK (x2), KrystyWroth, , citcat299, Jessica, samhaincat, Nathonia, annikodomo, Pink Tribe Chick, aicila.

**A/N:** The biggest bit of gossip this week isn't about me at all; it's about Lou, my primary beta and the only person other than me who knows the plot of this fic. You probably remember her from… pretty much every other AN I've ever written; she crops up a lot. And we've been celebrating lately, because my little Loulou has just got a boyfriend. Congratulations, Lou!

The Fallen/Macbeth schedule is, yes, very hectic. But thankfully it's working ok so far; no major difficulties getting it all done on time. I'm going to be using my new copy of the Sims 2 as the metaphorical carrot before the donkey – Write two pages, and _then_ you can play for an hour. It should provide some good motivation to get it all done, as long as I can stick to the hour limit I set myself!

And that's pretty much everything I have to say. Onto the chapter: enjoy!

* * *

_Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field…_

**_Genesis 3:1_**

* * *

Hermione slept later than she usually did; a consequence of staying up too late the night before. Eventually, she awoke to an early-morning rainstorm battering at the windows of Gryffindor tower and the unpleasant prospect of a Double Potions lesson with Snape looming over her. A perfectly ordinary Tuesday morning, especially for mid-October, but she still felt distinctly gloomy as she brushed her teeth and pulled on her robes. 

She headed for the common room thinking over the day ahead – double Potions, Arithmancy, Herbology, eat dinner with the Gryffindors, DA meeting at seven, and Draco in the library at eight-thirty. Homework she could do with Draco, possibly, or after their meeting if there was something he wanted to talk about. There was always lunchtime, of course, if Ron and Harry didn't want to do anything…

The common room was nearly empty, which wasn't surprising as breakfast had been underway for about half-an-hour. Hermione passed through without looking around much, after checking Ron and Harry weren't there, though she did notice that it was quieter than usual. She climbed through the portrait-hole and automatically set off for the Great Hall, allowing her feet to walk the corridors without much guidance from her brain, while she considered homework and Draco and the DA and how she was going to cope with all of their demands.

She was so preoccupied that, upon entering the Great Hall, it took her a few moments to notice something was wrong. She faltered in her step on the way to the Gryffindor table. There was none of the usual boisterous chatter, or laughter, or people moaning about teachers; no one was giggling, no one was screaming, no one was shouting. There were whispers, as though they were in a library or at a funeral, and the slight rustling of parchment. It was like the morning before exams, and looking around, people looked just as nervous, just as afraid, as they had before their tests.

There weren't any tests today; that meant something else was wrong, something big. Hermione's heart lurched – Narcissa's letter had said it, your father is at a Death Eater meeting, something like that…

She had to force herself to walk to the Gryffindor table, because at that moment all she really wanted was to turn around and flee back upstairs under her blankets where it was warm and safe, or escape to yesterday, when nothing bad had happened and everything was schoolwork and friendships.

Harry and Ron looked up as she shakily approached; one look at their faces confirmed what she already knew. She took a seat, carefully saved for her on Harry's right, took a deep breath, and asked, 'What happened?'

Wordlessly, Ron handed her the newspaper.

Last night the Welsh town of Aberddewin suffered the latest in a series of Death Eater attacks; a massacre on a scale unseen since the days of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's first rise to power.

Victims of the attack included Pureblood Paul Edwards, noted for his Arithmantic breakthroughs, who is currently in St. Mungo's in a critical condition; his wife and two children were found dead in the ruins of their home this morning. The current death toll stands at twenty-seven wizards and over sixty Muggles.

The Ministry, in a public statement early this morning, said, 'The tragedy of Aberddewin, in which many of our most valued wizards lost their lives, was a lamentable disaster. The Death Eaters cut off Floo access to the town and erected an Apparition barrier before the attack began, so the inhabitants of Aberddewin were unable to alert the outside world, and thus the Aurors only received news of the attack when a desperate owl arrived, written by a resident of the town in what were probably her final moments. Obviously, we will be looking into new and better ways to alert the Aurors immediately and effectively upon a large-scale attack of this nature.'

One of the Aurors, in a private interview with the Daily Prophet, gave his opinion as to why Aberddewin was chosen as the target. 'It's regarded as a town of blood-traitors,' he explained, 'Muggle-lovers and half-bloods. It does have a large population of Muggleborns, which would make it attractive to a Death Eater attack. I'd say that Muggleborns, and to an extent half-bloods, are in more danger even then Muggles from these attacks: You-Know-Who's aims are specifically 'to wipe out the Mudbloods' – not the Muggles. It's the contamination of the wizarding race with which he is concerned.'

The tragic story of Aberddewin – targeted for the bloodlines of its population – must serve as an example to us all of what must be avoided. The grim and terrifying pictures of the ruined houses and charred corpses in the once beautiful town square are a reminder of to what lengths He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will go to in his attempts to cleanse the wizarding race.

Pictures of the ruined town, an interview with a survivor of the attack and advice from the Ministry can be found on pages 4, 5 and 6.

Hermione stared at the end of the page for a few moments, disbelieving what she had just read; then slowly raised her eyes to meet Ron's across the table.

Harry tentatively put a hand on her arm, trying to offer comfort. 'Are you okay?' he asked.

'Twenty-seven wizards, sixty Muggles…' Hermione repeated in what was almost a whisper, barely more than a breath. 'That's almost ninety people. All at once.'

'Don't cry,' Ron was quick to plead, reaching out to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 'It's… it'll be okay…'

'It isn't okay,' Hermione said softly, but she wasn't about to cry. Her hand lingered over the newspaper for a minute, wondering whether she should read the information inside, look at what would undoubtedly be moving pictures of the destruction and the injured and the dead. She didn't.

Even that first article felt like too much, with the accompanying picture of the mocking Mark floating in the night sky. People had died. Only ninety; it wasn't anything like the numbers who had died in history in wars or attacks or ethnic cleansing, but it was the first time Hermione had ever felt a part of it. The major massacres had been far, far away and long, long ago when she'd learnt about them from books or history lessons at her Muggle primary school, like something out of a storybook. This was now, this was last night, these were people like herself - wizards and witches and wipe out the Muggleborns.

'Hermione,' Harry was saying, biting his lip, but at that moment the whispers in the Hall came to a sudden halt as Dumbledore stood up, dressed entirely in black today, his face solemn and traces of true grief in his eyes.

'I imagine you have all read, by now,' he began, straight to the point, 'of the attack on Aberddewin last night.' There was a small rustle of assent among the students. 'Aberddewin was a beautiful and peaceful town; I am sure some of you will have heard of it, even spent time there. It was idyllic: clean air, a beautiful river, merry children, playgrounds, libraries, and so many homes. Wizard lived side-by-side with Muggle, all backgrounds and all bloodlines in unity and harmony.

'Voldemort-' there were strangled gasps at the name, '- destroyed all this, not because it was dangerous, not because there was evil there, but because there were people living there whose bloodlines he disapproved of. Ordinary people, human beings, people who lived and breathed and laughed, who cried and played and rejoiced, people who died at his hand that night for a senseless cause.

'We must not allow ourselves to be afraid; to allow ourselves to be controlled and bullied by fear of what may happen. Now, more so than ever, is a time to stand strong together in unity, a time to show Voldemort that he can not divide us by terror and set one group against the other, for if we are divided we can never hope to defeat him. Only in unity will we succeed.'

After half a second's pause, he sat down again; whispers broke out almost immediately. Ron and Harry shared a glance.

'He'll never get the Slytherins to be friends with Muggleborns,' Ron said despondently, and Hermione wildly considered telling them that she and Draco were quite good friends, actually, or would be once Draco figured out what friendship was. She stopped herself; it would be stupid to tell them. It was just the fear. Terror did that; made people edgy and prone to saying things they wouldn't normally blurt out.

She glanced up at Dumbledore, who was engaged in what appeared to be quite a serious conversation with McGonagall. There had been something slightly odd about his speech. It was as much in the things he avoided saying as in the things he did say. He had danced around, for instance, the fact that the victims were Muggleborns and half-bloods, which the newspaper had stressed clearly, and he'd spent an odd amount of his time stressing unity. Why?

A sudden horrible thought struck her, and she grabbed up the newspaper again, skimming the article once more.

'I don't believe it,' she said flatly, surprising Harry and Ron who were sitting in glum silence.

'What? What is it?' Harry asked. 'The attack…?'

She waved a hand, biting her lip. 'The article. Not the attack, but…' She shook her head. 'It's so subtle, I didn't even see it…'

'Subtle? What is?' Ron demanded, puzzled. 'The attack wasn't…'

Hermione didn't wait for him to finish, picking up the paper and rapidly reading off choice quotes.

'A town of blood-traitors, Muggle-lovers and half-bloods, Muggleborns are in more danger even then Muggles from these attacks, You-Know-Who's aims are specifically 'to wipe out the Mudbloods' the contamination of the wizarding race, targeted for the bloodlines of its population…'

Harry was frowning. 'You mean…?'

'They're implying that anyone who's even friends with a Muggleborn's in danger,' Hermione clarified, than gave a little shaky laugh. So people start to avoid them – us – and they're afraid to be around us in case they're branded Muggle-lovers and targeted because of it, and then we become outcasts. And then it's only a very short step from being ostracised to being hated…'

* * *

Blaise was watching him. 

It was lunchtime, and an unusually large number of Slytherins had gathered in the common room after eating. Draco was among them, mainly because of a kind of I-want-to-know impulse that he thought was interest or curiosity. Aberddewin would change a lot of things, and the way people reacted to it could mean a lot of subtle place-shifting on the social hierarchy.

A lot of it was in subtle signs or signals. As an example: the neutral group were dressed all in black, the traditional sign of respect. The very highest Purebloods, many of whom were quite openly aligned with Voldemort, were all wearing something colourful. Pansy had a bright pink slide in her hair, for example, while Crabbe and Goyle had charmed the cuffs of their sleeves to a Slytherin green. Blaise was wearing a chunky gold bracelet, inset with emeralds, which she kept toying with as she watched him.

She was doing it surreptitiously, from the corner of her eye, and if he hadn't been paying attention to the room he wouldn't have spotted it. Now he knew, and the knowledge was like a fly that wouldn't go away, or a stone in his shoe. Annoying; that was a simple one to name.

He forced himself to focus on the rest of the Slytherins. The middle groups seemed very divided; some were wearing full black, some had colourful additions. There seemed to be a third group of indecisive people, who weren't wearing full black but hadn't added colour, either. Most of them had a white addition, or a shade of grey.

Of course, none of this colour-coding was a system that had ever existed before, or had ever been written down in any kind of rulebook. It had evolved silently and without discussion that day, and anyone practiced at the nuances of Slytherin politics could pick up on it and work the rules out for themselves.

Draco had deliberated over what to wear. He did not want to wear something colourful; logic pointed out that it would serve no useful purpose, as the other Slytherins would never take him back and that would be the only reason to wear it. It would also send the message that he was anti-Muggleborn, and he felt that would be a betrayal of Hermione. But that wasn't logic, it was emotion. Betrayal was nothing but a tool to a Fallen.

Which had left either plain black or some kind of grey or white. And what good would grey or white do, besides give people the impression that he wished to start moving up the chain again? And he didn't want that: the chain meant lying and twisting yourself and forcing yourself to be what the others wanted you to be, playing the game and using people, and what good would it do him in the end? The Slytherins were in sufficient awe of his Dark abilities to leave him alone, which suited him perfectly.

So he'd gone for pure black, in the end, and Blaise kept glancing at his clothing.

He ignored it, tried to focus for an instant on a particularly interesting division of loyalties within one middle-group – a pair of best friends; one wearing colour, the other black, and both were sitting in a kind of fitful, edgy silence – and found he couldn't focus on it.

Besides, this wasn't what you were supposed to do when something like this happened, was it? You were meant to be… well, you were meant to feel something about it. Compassion, shock, fear. Compassion for the victims, shock that something like this had happened, fear that it would happen again.

His father had been one of the attackers. Lucius had probably killed quite a few of that total ninety. Shouldn't Draco feel something about that?

Any feelings he had came in occasional flashes, too quick for him to pin them down and identify like a collection of dead butterflies. Maybe he'd caught a flash of fear, once when he'd read about how they'd burned the corpses in the town square. Anything else he'd felt were just vague and unsettling wisps of emotion.

You were meant to feel things about an event like this. You were meant to feel miserable, shocked. If you supported Voldemort, you were meant to feel pleased. You weren't meant to feel nothing. The idea had an element of fear about it, a certain feeling that was almost like losing control. It was the sense that he might be in some way defective, that he might be lacking some intrinsic ability to care. He hadn't chosen to become human, but now that he was the thought of being somehow lacking made him afraid.

He didn't know why he was afraid, and it didn't seem logical to be afraid, especially since he could fake all the trappings of misery and sympathy perfectly. But he was used to the fact that emotions had no logic by now; they simply were. He felt something like fear, and that was that. If he couldn't work out why, he would ask Hermione.

Hermione. She'd been upset this morning; Potter and Weasley too. He'd been watching them across the tables in much the same way that Blaise was now watching him. Surreptitiously, cautiously. He didn't think they'd noticed him, but he'd seen the shock and horror and misery plainly on their faces. He was meant to have felt that too, and he hadn't, and it was troubling him.

He would ask Hermione; they were supposed to be meeting that night. Hopefully she'd have some explanation. Or maybe it had something to do with being so new to emotions. What was it now? Three months?

He needed to reply to his mother. Especially after Aberddewin. She'd be alone in the Manor with house elves, letters, books and an emotionless mass-murderer; Draco suspected she needed as much contact with others as possible…

Blaise had abandoned subtlety and gone for outright staring now, and it really was very difficult to ignore. Draco looked away nonchalantly while he considered what to do; he could continue paying her no attention or he could respond. Meeting her gaze was probably best, with a long, sharp glare, until she looked away in embarrassment.

Deciding this, he turned his head back towards her, assumed a cold and arrogant expression and glared back. She met his gaze for a minute, then slowly and deliberately glanced upwards, looked away and scratched her nose.

Draco felt what was most definitely surprise, a slow kind that spread from the bellybutton. Blaise had been a friend once, or at least someone with whom he'd gone through all the acts of friendship. Blaise had trusted him with secrets and important information, and from this he assumed the friendship was genuine on her part. The signal she'd just given had been one they'd used since they were five; I want to talk to you. Leave the room, wait outside and I'll come to you in a minute.

There had been no mistaking it; her actions had been deliberate and careful. But she hadn't talked to him since the train journey to Hogwarts. Admittedly, she had tried to get him to rejoin her side, and she'd sounded genuinely upset about his defection, and she'd been staring at him a lot since then, but…

Should he talk to her or not?

There was no reason not to, if he didn't say anything important. And if he did speak to her, he could learn something. At the very least he could glean some insight into her motives and what she wanted of him and that was always useful information.

Emotionally, he was just curious.

He got to his feet, causally, not looking at Blaise, and strolled through the common room to the exit. Once outside, he leant against the wall of the corridor and waited. She wouldn't be long.

Two minutes later, the door of the common room slid open and Blaise stepped out.

'Draco,' she said, giving him a slight nod. He returned it.

'Blaise.'

'I wanted to ask…' she began, before frowning. 'Perhaps we should get out of the corridor? It's not exactly conducive to private conversation, is it?'

'Not really,' Draco said noncommittally. 'A classroom?'

Blaise nodded, and led the way to the nearest empty one. It must have been used for Potions lessons in the past: there was still a faint smell in the air of fire, spilt potion and plant sap.

'Go on, than,' Draco said, giving her a nod, 'talk.'

She folded her arms, giving him an irritated glare. 'Stop the cold bastard act, Draco, it doesn't suit you,' she snapped. 'Not anymore.'

'Anymore?' Draco asked.

'You've… changed,' she said, and Draco had to bite back a cutting remark. 'And I don't know why, and I think I'm entitled to know.'

He was about to give her a withering glare, but when he looked up to meet her eyes he saw that she was actually genuinely upset, and he couldn't bringing himself to do it. 'Blaise,' he began with a sigh, 'I can't tell you that. And don't give me that look, because honestly, I can't.'

'Try.' It was snapped, an order. He could read Blaise like a book after years of knowing her, and he knew she was getting angry.

'I mean it, Blaise, I can't tell you. It's…' he sighed, and told part of the truth, 'related to an old family secret, one which goes back more years than I care to recall. Traditionally we only tell our spouses, or other people in exceptional circumstances.'

'And I suppose these aren't exceptional circumstances?' Blaise asked, looking grin and dark in the dim light.

'They aren't,' he agreed. 'I won't tell you.'

She stood silent for a minute, biting her lip, her breath turning to wreaths of white mist in the unheated classroom.

Finally she spoke. 'I can't think of anything which would force you to change, not this much. Which means you chose it.' she looked up at him, fixing him with a hard glare. 'Maybe you can't make it back to the top of the chain, but you can make it back somewhere…'

'What if I don't want to?' he asked. 'What if I don't care for Slytherin politics or serving Voldemort or wearing a ridiculous bracelet to mock the deaths of people who hadn't done any harm?'

'Mudbloods.' Blaise said firmly. 'Mudbloods and Muggles, they aren't people, Draco, they're…'

'People.' Draco said firmly, fighting a shudder as Hermione came to mind and he realised, in an abstract way, that Blaise was saying that Hermione was worthless. 'Human beings, just like you or me. They bleed the same colour blood as you or I do…'

'But it's not the same blood,' Blaise said dispassionately. 'We have centuries of breeding, centuries of power behind ours, while theirs is weak and poor…'

His temper flared, something oddly hot and colourful in the cold greyness of the classroom. 'Would you also support killing all the people who don't have a family history of intelligence, Blaise?' he asked sharply. 'I imagine you'd be the first to go.'

'Draco!' she said, grabbing him by the wrist – he had turned half away towards the door. 'You have no idea what you're talking about, Mudbloods aren't worth…'

He shook her off and slammed the door behind him as he left.

* * *

**A/N: **And that, for this week, is that. Don't forget Macbeth on Monday!

Now, review, because otherwise I run the risk of getting so caught up in the Sims-2-world that I don't pay any attention whatsoever to the real world and utterly forget to write anything. And that would be bad, no?

So what are you waiting for, review!


	32. Break

**Chapter 31: Break**

**Disclaimer:** Considering I've written 31 other disclaimers to the effect that I don't own any of it, JKRowling does, I don't know why I keep doing them. People who haven't read them already are unlikely to begin doing so: people who've read them already are unlikely to think I've metamorphosed into the goddess JKR. I haven't, by the way.

**Thanks for 1129 reviews goes to: **citcat299, Go10, brettley, Slytheravengryffinpuff, aicila, heavengurl899(x2), Arafel2, SilverMoonset, willowfairy, Meghan, foxer, Chii, kessi1101, Alexi Lupin, Nia Redanvi, KrystyWroth, Paganicewand, Redwitch1, slytherinpunk, ablakvh, Genevieve Jones, sara, nady, Rebecca15, Nikki, Jenie, draconas, Krispykreme1468, RedCinders, midnight-blue, OXBglider PhAnToM-ChiK, SycoCallie, Crystella, ToOtHpIcK, deathdefiance, Stoneage Woman (x4), Plaidly Lush, finally-defeated, Anna, Sickness in Salvation (x12), bella, NotYourAverageSchoolgirl.

**A/N:** And life continues pretty much as normal. All the writing is settling into a nice kind of rhythm, albeit a rather scary one, because I tried to work out how long I should be spending writing per week and it comes to just over a full day's worth. Though that is counting a third co-written project I ought to be starting soon, so it probably won't be that bad all the time.

With regards to '_the whole "feelings" thing makes Draco seem handicapped or something'_: The politically correct phrase is 'emotionally challenged,' but of course I never bother with being PC and go for 'emotionally retarded'. It sounds more dramatic. (and slytherinpunk – try Macbeth: it sounds more like your kind of thing.)

And _'i got the sense that that whole part where Hermione was feeling actually close and connected with the attacks on Aberddewin, was somewhere related and had something to do with feelings towards the september 11th attacks? … i thought that maybe u wrote that whole part from ur experience or something...'_ Actually, nope. The first person to tell me about 9/11 was my friend on the bus who was, at the time, a chronic liar, so I thought he was lying. When I found out he wasn't lying, I'd already heard about it, so I never really had a proper shock-reaction to the attacks…

_'Erebus Delaney, eh... Hm... Erebus... Y'know, Erebos, is the Greek word (or at least one of them) for Darkness. But I have a feeling you already knew that.'_ Yup! (Though I was going off the Latin Erebus, which is obviously a Latin-ization of the Greek word) Most of my OCs (apart from some of the throwaway ones who just appear once) have names with some kind of meaning to them. Course, with some of them I might be trying to mislead you…

Anyway, enough rambling in response to reviews. Onto the story! Enjoy!

* * *

_Life is always at some turning point._

**_Irwin Edman_**

* * *

'That's what we need to think about,' Harry finished quietly. 'We've seen… we've seen what happens when the Death Eaters make a large-scale attack, we know what kinds of things they do. What things could be effective against them. So…' He paused; his mouth was dry and sticky, 'that's what we need to teach the DA.'

There was a pause while the others took in Harry's words. He glanced briefly at each of their faces, paler and tighter than usual. The common room was quieter than normal: any chatter of laughter that broke out faded away almost instantly.

'The thing is,' Hermione said thoughtfully, 'it's difficult to know exactly how we can change things from what we've already got planned. We can't teach them anything that will stop the Killing Curse: there isn't anything.'

'I know.' Harry sighed. 'But there has to be _something _we can do. What about communication? The Death Eaters cut off the Floo and Apparition, and Muggle electronics too. Is there any way the people in Aberddewin could have alerted the Aurors? Faster than an owl? If someone had, then maybe…'

He didn't finish the thought, but he could tell the others knew. _Maybe some people would have been saved._

The others were quiet, again, as they tried to think. Harry hoped one of them could come up with something: he knew he couldn't. His mind was too full.

In a way, this helped. _Doing_ something, planning something, trying to come up with answers. It made him feel calmer, as if there was actually something he could do. And it _could_ help, if ever someone was in an attack; something he'd taught them could come in useful.

Hermione had said something a few weeks ago that stuck with him. 'I think it'll really help them, especially the younger ones,' she'd said. 'Help them feel more prepared, more confident, less afraid. Part of a team, as well, especially since there's people from every house.'

It was true, Harry thought, except it didn't only help the DA. It helped him too, and Hermione was always reassured when working with spells and books and knowledge. Ron and Ginny seemed more relaxed too: just doing something, just helping.

'Signals…' Hermione said slowly, frowning. 'It would depend how many people were around…'

'What?' Harry asked, instantly alert.

'I was thinking of fireworks,' Hermione said. 'Only it'd have to be a spell, of course, and it'd have to be more visible, and permanent, and it'd have to be something that obviously meant _help_…'

'That could work,' Ginny said thoughtfully after a slight pause. 'Only you'd probably have to do something to it so Muggles couldn't see the sign, otherwise they'd come running and get killed. Plus there probably wouldn't be any wizards around for miles, and doing some kind of Muggle Repellent Charm on it would make it more of a NEWT level spell. Not exactly the kind of thing we can teach the first years.'

'So scratch that,' Ron said, 'Sorry, Hermione, it was a good idea…'

Hermione shook her head. 'No, it's impractical,' she agreed. 'It's probably not that important, the Ministry said they were going to try and come up with something…'

'But who trusts the Ministry?' Harry cut in. 'And it's better to be prepared, so if we can come up with any ideas, it'd be-'

Ginny gave a yelp, and all their heads turned sharply in her direction. The cause was quickly apparent: Dean had crept up behind her and grabbed her shoulders suddenly, and was even now grinning mischievously down at her.

'Dean,' Ginny greeted him with a slight glare and an exaggerated pout. 'You scared the life out of me!'

He laughed. 'You look pretty alive to me,' he assured her, claiming a kiss from her cheek. From the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Ron twitch. 'What are you doing? Can we go for a walk?'

'DA meeting…' Ginny said, squirming in her seat slightly and glancing round at her friends for support. They all knew Dean had a problem with Ginny spending too much time with her friends. He was frowning.

'You've had plenty of meetings before,' he said shortly. 'It can't be all that important.'

Ginny gave Harry such a desperate glance that he felt compelled to speak up. 'It is quite important, actually,' he said, looking at the floor. He forced himself to meet Dean's gaze: it was dark and rather surly. 'After… after Aberddewin.'

'You can go if you want, Ginny,' Hermione said quickly. 'I'm sure we can manage.'

Dean cheered up at that. 'Great,' he said, 'Thanks, Hermione.' He caught Ginny's hand to help her out of he sofa, but she didn't make a move to get up. She stayed seated, biting her lip as she looked up at him.

'I'd… I think I'd prefer to stay,' she said quietly. 'I do want to spend time with you. I really, do, but… but this is about helping people. About doing something against the Death Eaters, and it's important to me that I'm actually-'

'Ginny,' Dean said, and it was a flat statement, cutting her off in mid-speech. 'This isn't your battle; it's nothing to do with you. Nothing.'

She paused for a moment, then raised her chin in an expression of defiance. 'Yes, it is,' she said firmly. 'My parents and four of my brothers are directly involved in this war, and my three best friends are going to join the Order the instant they come of age. Harry's already faced Voldemort five times. That makes it my war. And I want to do something to help, however small and insignificant it may turn out to be.'

'And that takes priority over spending time with your boyfriend?' Dean asked harshly.

Ginny answered plainly and unequivocally. 'Yes.'

In the ensuing silence, Harry tried to look anywhere other than Dean's face, which bore an expression that could only be called murderous. Beside him, Hermione coughed quietly.

'Dean,' Ginny carried on, quietly, 'I do like spending time with you. And I do want to spend time with you, and I know you don't like it when I spend too much time with my friends. But it's not like we ever see each other, we've been together at least…'

'I don't care.' Dean said, and his voice was far too low and far too soft; it reminded Harry of a shadow, right before your nightmares crawled out of it. 'I don't care. I want to talk to you _now_, I need to talk to you _now_, and you…'

'I'm spending time with my friends,' Ginny said, and Harry wondered how she was keeping calm, 'who also need me.' She sighed, shifting slightly in her chair as though Dean's expression was making her uncomfortable, then looked up again. 'I'll come and find you after the DA meeting, alright?'

'No.' Dean said, folding his arms sharply. 'Now. They said you can come, so come.'

'But I _want_ to stay,' Ginny said, her annoyance finally beginning to show in her voice. 'I want to help my friends decide what to do, I want to help my brother to cheer up, I want to help Harry-'

'Harry,' Dean spat as though his name was a foul word, and Harry glanced upwards, unsure as to why his roommate sounded so angry. 'Harry's DA, Harry's planning session, Harry's bloody battle. The best thing you could do is stop hanging around Harry.' Dean leant closer to Ginny, whose face was white; she was biting her lip. 'He just gets everyone into danger.'

Hermione actually gasped: Ginny's eyes widened then narrowed with a sudden fire. Harry, for his part, felt what had to be described as a dull, rather distant pain, as though everything that was happening was something he was watching in a Pensieve or on TV. _He just gets everyone into danger…_

And then it hit: like someone pouring a bucket of freezing water over his head, and he flinched as the thought of Sirius came to his mind with a full and vivid force. _No, no, Dean didn't mean that, he doesn't know about Sirius and anyway he's angry, he doesn't know what he's saying…_

There was a short, sharp noise, and Harry opened his eyes – had he closed them? – to see Ginny, on her feet and practically radiating anger, and Dean with a rapidly growing red patch on his cheek where she'd just slapped him. If anything, he looked surprised.

'Get out.' Ginny ordered. 'Just get out.'

'You slapped me.'

'Yes, and you deserved it. Now,' she drew her wand, 'get out.'

Dean focused on the tip of Ginny's wand, less than an inch from his face. 'You wouldn't,' he said, quite soft, almost a plea. 'I'm your boyfriend…'

'Not any more.' Ginny said, a surprising coldness in her voice. There were gasps and whispers throughout the common room: Harry dimly realised that everyone was watching them. 'Not any more. Now get out before I hex you, and don't think I won't.'

Dean bit his lip, his expression desperate, pleading. 'Ginny…'

'Now.'

It was a harsh command, unforgiving and cold, and Dean's face fell. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned and walked away. The portrait slammed behind him, echoing in the sudden still silence.

Ginny sat down, pale and shaking suddenly. 'Where were we?'

'Ginny,' Hermione said, frowning and reaching out a hand, 'are you okay? He didn't know – about Snuffles - he didn't mean to be…'

'I know.' Ginny said quietly, waving Hermione's comfort away. 'I was sick of him anyway. It was just the final straw.' She looked up at Harry, then, and her brown eyes softened slightly. 'Are _you_ alright?'

He nodded. 'You didn't have to… I mean, you shouldn't…'

He hadn't been entirely sure how he was going to end that sentence, but Ginny cut him off anyway. 'I know, but I wanted to.'

Ron was shaking his head. 'I'll _kill_ him,' he said. 'That absolute-'

'You're not killing anyone,' Ginny said firmly. 'Leave him alone. As far as I'm concerned it's all over. End of story.'

'Do you want to talk?' Hermione asked. 'I mean… you know you can always talk to us?'

'I know. Thanks. But really, right now, I want to plan for the DA,' Ginny replied firmly. 'We were talking about communication?'

* * *

'There's a lot of people here.' Harry said.

Hermione had been keeping an eye on him, surreptitiously, ever since Dean made his disastrously misjudged comment. She'd been watching Ginny as well, but she seemed to be either okay or very good at faking it. Probably a bit of both.

Harry was the one she was worried about; he'd been oddly silent ever since the fight, just like he had been over the summer holiday. It was just such a sharp, sudden reminder: she was confident that tomorrow, or the day after, he'd be normal again. As normal as Harry Potter could be, anyway.

'It's probably because of… because of Aberddewin,' she replied. 'People will be coming just for reassurance.' She paused. 'Have you decided what you're going to say?'

They'd talked about the prejudice, in the common room, and they'd come up with the idea that Harry should make a brief opening speech of some kind. He usually spoke to the DA at the beginning – not a speech, but a brief hello, welcome, today we're doing such-a-thing, this is how you do it.

He was going to say something about Aberddewin, and something about prejudice. They'd gone over the general scope of what he was going to say, but there hadn't been time to actually write any kind of formal speech, so it was left to Harry to ad lib.

'I pretty much know, yeah,' Harry replied. 'And I should go say it, I suppose… do you think anyone else is going to come?'

Hermione glanced at her watch, then shook her head. 'Not now. Better go talk to them.'

He made a face; rather half-heartedly. 'I hate speaking to people,' he muttered, before making his way to the front of the room. Everyone fell silent.

'You all know what happened last night in Wales,' Harry began, going straight to the point. Hermione thought he looked almost vulnerable, standing alone at the front of a room full of people with his face still pale. But then he shifted, or the light changed, and he looked like a leader, albeit a weary one. 'Some of you are here because of it, because you saw what happened and you wanted to join. Thanks for coming; everyone's welcome.'

He paused, took a breath. 'Aberddewin was a massacre. It happened because a group of people thought they were better than another group of people.' He said that with some bitterness. 'They aren't. Purebloods are human, half-bloods are human, Muggleborns are human. Whoever your parents are, we're all the same. We're all witches and wizards, and that's what matters. The only way we're going to win, the only way to defeat Voldemort, is by working together.'

Another pause. 'If you start fighting each other, or excluding each other, or refusing to be around someone because they're a Muggleborn and you think being friends with them will make you a target, then we might as well give up and stop fighting now. Because if we start being prejudiced, if we start drawing divisions between Pureblood and Muggleborn, we're just going to grow up the same way. Thinking that Purebloods are better and Muggleborns are worse, and then in a decade or two we'll just have another Voldemort, and another, and another, and so on until we learn that who our parents are doesn't matter.'

He seemed to have finished: people glanced at each other, a few whispers broke out. Harry caught Hermione's eyes: she smiled back at him, and he nodded. It had been, for a mostly invented-on-the-spot speech, rather good.

* * *

Eight-forty. Exactly.

They had arranged to meet at eight-thirty, and Hermione wasn't here ten minutes later, which made Draco feel… too many things at once, and none of them pleasant. He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to identify the emotions – mainly for something to do – but he couldn't put a name to them, except that they were hot and sharp and made him uncomfortable.

It wasn't like her to be late; both she and Draco were punctual by nature. Usually they were both there five minutes before the agreed time. Ten minutes before wasn't uncommon. And now it was eight forty-one, and Hermione wasn't here yet.

He knew she'd had a DA session before, but that was meant to have finished in plenty of time for her to get down to the library. She could have been kept behind helping or discussing or just talking, but equally something could have gone wrong. After all, they were learning hexes – he assumed they were learning hexes – and with first years and Gryffindors around, things could have gone wrong…

Worry. One of the emotions could be worry. Worry fitted: or it could be interest, that seemed to fit as well. And weren't people supposed to feel annoyed when others were late?

He was distracted from his thoughts by the voice of the very person he was thinking about. 'Draco?'

He glanced up to see Hermione standing at the entrance to their alcove, her face flushed from hurrying down and her eyebrows furrowed, a look of apology on her face. 'I'm sorry I'm late, I've had…' She sighed. 'An absolutely terrible day.'

'Aberddewin?' Draco asked after a moment, and she glanced down at the floor, eyes closing briefly, a fraction of a second too long for a blink.

'Partly that, yes. Partly other things too…' She looked up. 'Are you mad at me for being late?'

'I was just trying to figure that out, actually,' he said in all seriousness, not realising how potentially amusing it was until she laughed: a little laugh, before her anxious face returned and she sat down beside him. 'What else, other than… the massacre?' he asked.

She didn't look at him for a minute, instead bending down to look through her schoolbag. 'Just… well, normal things. Everyday things. Well, I suppose Harry doesn't count as normal, but…'

'What kinds of things?' he asked. His emotions were prompting him to ask, though he couldn't have said why. There was a bit of curiosity, and a bit of what he knew as compassion; the rest of it was meaningless.

'Well…' she began, looked undecided for a moment, and then carried on. 'Considering this will probably be all over the school by ten o'clock, I might as well tell you. Ginny and Dean split up.'

'I'd forgotten they were going out,' Draco confessed. He had never followed the love affairs of the Gryffindors, not because he thought anything particularly negative about Gryffindors – Hermione was one, after all – but because it neither interested him nor had any relevance for him. Now, however, when it was Hermione's friends and Hermione being affected by it… 'Why?' he asked.

'He was over-possessive,' Hermione explained. 'He got upset whenever he wanted to spend time with her and she wanted to spend time with us. As in Ron and Harry and me. And this afternoon we were having a planning session about the DA – things in light of the attack – and he came up and wanted to sneak off to a broom closet with her or whatever they do. I said she could go, she said she didn't want to go, they fought, Dean said something really bad and Ginny slapped him, said it was over and told him to get out. She's been trying to act like it hasn't affected her, I think, but I think it has…'

'What did Dean say?' Draco asked.

Hermione paused. 'I can't say: it was something about Harry and it'd mean explaining… well, a lot of Harry's personal problems.' She sighed. 'Basically he said something that really hurt him, except he didn't know it'd hurt him. It's a bit difficult…'

'It's okay, forget it,' Draco said, waving a hand. While he did, of course, want to know, he found that he didn't want _Hermione_ to tell him. If she told him Potter's secrets, what was to keep her from telling Potter his secrets? He'd rather she kept both sets of secrets to herself. 'So you're also worried about Potter?'

'Yes,' she said. 'He's trying to act normal as well, because he knows I worry, but you can tell he's… messed up, and I can't just make it better.' She sighed. 'There should be a spell for times like this. Just wave your wand and the whole thing goes away.'

'Sadly we have nothing, short of an Obliviate spell,' Draco said absently. 'And you usually just have to find out again anyway… Oh, and Cheering Charms. But they wouldn't help the real problem.'

Hermione nodded. 'They should have invented one that does by now,' she said, sighing and leaning her head on the desk, closing her eyes. 'It'd make things so much simpler…'

She was quiet, after that, resting with her head pillowed in her arms, her bushy hair spread messily all over the place and her eyes closed. Draco watched for what must have been almost a minute: she began to make him feel sleepy too.

He wondered if he was envious of her, and how he'd realise if he was. It all seemed so easy for her. She knew what she was feeling, after all, she could put a name and a definition to each one. When you defined something, you learnt how to control it, how to defeat it. True, sometimes you couldn't do anything about a situation – as Hermione couldn't do anything about the younger Weasley's break up or whatever was wrong with Potter or the Aberddewin massacre. And when you couldn't do something about an emotion, it kept hurting. But when you could, and you cured it and it went away…

Envy would make sense: it would be logical. Whether he felt it or not he didn't know.

But of course, emotions weren't logical. Logically, he'd feel something – grief or sadness or feat – about Aberddewin, and he didn't. Which reminded him: he had to ask Hermione.

After a second's pause, deciding whether he should rouse her from her rest, he said, 'Hermione?'

'Mmm?'

'I think… I don't know. I don't feel – or I don't think I feel – anything about…' He paused. 'About Aberddewin. I don't feel anything about it.'

He glanced over at her; she was sitting with her head raised up, resting on her elbow, regarding him with interest. 'What do you mean by 'nothing'?'

'Nothing. Everyone else feels upset, or afraid or something, apart from some of the Slytherins. And I don't feel anything about it. Well, apart from little flashes, and I never know what it is I feel in them.'

He watched her while she thought; head tilted to one side, a strand of hair lying across her cheek. He had to fight down an urge to brush it back: things that were out of place, he'd found, could be annoying. Annoyance he could recognise and deal with, as long as it was on its own and not mixed with any other emotion.

'I was afraid there might be something… something wrong with me,' he admitted when she didn't speak for a while. Hermione looked up in surprise.

'Wrong with you? Why?'

'Because I don't feel-'

'I think quite a few people wouldn't feel anything,' she said thoughtfully. 'I've just been thinking… sometimes you know something is horrible and cruel and wrong, but you can't stir up any emotion for it. It happens, I think, especially when you don't really have any connection to what happened.' She smiled at him. 'Either that, or you're just too new to emotion. You just might not be registering it as an emotional thing.'

He frowned. 'It's possible, I suppose.' He mimicked her pose, then, feeling tired himself from watching her sleepiness. He leant forwards, arms folded on the table and head resting in the bend of his elbow. 'So you don't think there's anything wrong?'

'No,' she replied, closing her eyes. 'We know you feel compassion; you felt it for Ellen… so I think you're okay.'

'Good,' Draco replied, giving her a little smile and closing his own eyes too.

They stayed that way for a little while, each silent with eyes closed, until Draco spoke.

'Hermione?'

'Yes?' was the drowsy reply.

'We shouldn't be resting: we'll end up falling asleep in the middle of the library.'

'Nothing wrong with that.'

He forced himself to open his eyes and straighten up. 'Yes, there is, it's bad for your neck.' Reaching over, he shook her shoulder gently. 'Up, or I pour a bucket of cold water over your head.'

'In the library?' she asked, giving him such a reproachful look that he couldn't help but laugh.

'Yes, in the library,' he replied. 'Now sit up and stay awake.'

* * *

**A/N: **Right in the middle of that chapter I realised I'd started to really, really dislike my current version of Dean. Which is odd, because I didn't set out to make him quite that dislikeable. Characters can sometimes just run off on you, and generally when I write I like to let them run - as long as they don't start doing things that could really screw up the plot.

Now then, who's going to review? Those who don't… hmm, what shall I do to you this week? I'll put your names in a hat and pick three of you to go on Blind Date with Dean. Hehehe… to avoid this fate, review!


	33. Butterbeer, Briefly

**Chapter 32: Butterbeer, Briefly**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter: JK Rowling has the pleasure of that. All I own is a really fiendish cold, the kind where it feels like your nose is on fire and/or about to explode all the time. Pity me.

**Thanks for 1180 reviews goes to: **willowfairy, Rebecca15, SycoCallie, kessi1011,ablakevh, Madam Midnight, Genevieve Jones, Ciara, jules37, Orchid6297, KrystyWrote, SweetonSpike, deathdefiance, Sickness in Salvation, prana, slytherinpunk, nady, Stoneage Woman, langocska, midnight-blue, OXBglider, Nikki, draconas, Nathonea, MeiLin, citcas299, plumsy321, foxer, Distorted Pheonix, angel1219us, Go10, heavengurl899, FalconWing, Medea Callous, Alexi Lupin, Samilla, Tayz, PinkTribeChick, Plaidly Lush, haley, elektra30, the hope conspiracy, Michelle, Jenie, RedWitch1, Muznakh, Slytheravengryffenpuff, brettley, kunochi, Crystella.

**A/N:** And because everyone keeps going on about chapter length: every chapter is 8±1 pages long. For those of you who haven't got to that bit in maths yet: that means either 7, 8 or 9 pages. So if they seem to be getting shorter, it's an illusion! Last week's was one of the longest yet: this week's is 7.5.

If you put all my fics in order according to how much I've learnt from them, Fallen would be top of the list. Seriously. All the feedback you wonderful, amazing reviewers give me – both positive and negative! – has been more helpful than you'd imagine, even if one of the biggest things I've learnt is that you can't please _everyone_, ever, and what one person loves another will absolutely abhor – just look at last chapter's reviews and see what people were saying about the whole Ginny/Dean thing!

I also have to apologise for the choice of this chapter's quote. If I say my beta made me do it, will you forgive me?

With that thought, I'll move onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_Do, or do not. There is no try._

_**Yoda in Star Wars**_

_****_

* * *

He fell to the floor, dizzy and gasping for breath.

When his vision cleared, Harry glanced upwards to see Snape in front of him, eyes narrowed and dark, arms crossed impatiently and his lip curled. Nervously, Harry glanced away again, preparing himself for the inevitable lecture. _You must do better. You must try harder._ Except he didn't know how he _could_ try any harder.

The Occlumency was more difficult today. However hard he pushed, however hard he tried to block Snape out, it never worked. And then Snape would glare at him, and make some coldly sarcastic comment, and Harry would struggle to his feet and try again and it would be just as impossible that time…

Snape hadn't spoken yet: Harry chanced another glance upwards and saw the Potions teacher looking at him with contempt. Perhaps Snape's disgust had reached the point where words were so pathetically inadequate that he didn't bother using them.

At any rate, Harry's breathing had calmed and his vision was now completely clear: he pushed himself to his feet, forced himself to make eye contact with Snape, and waited.

There was a very slight pause, no longer than a heartbeat, before Snape raised his wand. 'Legilimens.'

The spell tore into Harry's mind as though there were no resistance at all, pictures flashing across his internal vision– flash of green light – basilisk – falling from his broomstick – graveyard – Aberddewin - Sirius - _He just gets everyone into danger…_

And back to the dungeon, surrounded by grey stone walls, cold air, the smell of old potions, kneeling on the floor with his heart pounding.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself, and heard Snape's voice, harsh and angry.

'You are not _trying_, Potter.'

Wearily, he opened his eyes and looked upwards. 'I am trying,' was all he could say: there was really nothing else to be said. He was trying; he was not succeeding.

'Then explain why your mind is putting up no resistance whatsoever,' Snape snapped curtly. 'Unless you are managing to become worse at Occlumency – an incredible feat considering how poor you were to begin with – I can see no reason for your performance today other than that you are _not_ trying.'

Harry took a deep breath. It was true that he did seem to be worse today then he'd ever been before: he just couldn't block anything, for some reason, as though his mind were too weary to do anything. He was tired in some way that was deeper than physical: he wanted to lie down somewhere and sleep for a year, sleep until all this was over and everything was alright again. Except that it wouldn't be, not until he killed Voldemort. Or was killed by him, in which case he'd get the sleep he'd wanted – just one he'd never wake up from.

'I _am_ trying,' he repeated.

Snape raised one disbelieving eyebrow, then lifted his wand once more – Harry had a split second to react – and said, his tone almost lazy, 'Legilimens.'

_Veil – Umbridge – quill – Sirius – death – danger – Dursleys - cupboard – Dudley – bullying – Voldemort – Cruciatius…_

The spell ended abruptly: Harry was surprised to find that he hadn't fallen to the floor, though he definitely felt like doing so.

Snape's voice was colder and harsher than ever: what hellfire would be like if it were cold instead of hot. 'I would have thought that you would have tried harder, after Aberddewin,' he said sharply. 'Is the great Harry Potter really so uncaring about the lives of others that he cannot be bothered to practice-'

'_What_?' Harry cut in incredulously, mouth hanging open. He shut it. 'Professor, I-'

'Should learn not to interrupt your teachers,' Snape replied icily, turning away from him and crossing the room to his desk. He sat down, took out quill and parchment and began writing.

'What… you were saying… what were you saying?' Harry demanded, his eyes never leaving the Potions teacher, a cold, numb speck growing inside him.

'Merely that I was surprised the wizarding world's greatest…' His eyes narrowed, and he sneered, '_hero_ didn't appear to care about…'

Very slowly, Harry shook his head. 'I… Aberddewin… of course I _care_,' he said. He remembered how he'd felt when he'd first heard the news: frightened, nervous, afraid it would happen again. He'd known, also, that this was his responsibility, that he was the only one who could put a stop to this…

'Then why,' Snape asked, 'were you making no _effort_?'

'I was!' Harry protested. 'It's just… I don't know, I couldn't…'

'You weren't trying,' said Snape harshly, putting the quill down and rising from his desk. 'The first major attack of this war, and our golden hero can't even be bothered to learn Occlumency, doesn't even care…'

'I do care.' Harry's voice was hard, lower than normal, sounding quite alien as it interrupted Snape's silky poison words. 'If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't be torturing myself spending hours in this dungeon with you shoving around the insides of my head, if I really didn't care _I wouldn't come_…'

'And if you cared, you'd try harder.' Snape spat, his eyes narrowing. 'Get out of here, Potter. Come back when you can be bothered to learn.'

'No.' Harry's voice surprised even himself; he seemed to have said that without thinking.

'These are my personal rooms, Potter,' Snape said, quite calmly, quite placidly.' Get out.'

'No,' Harry repeated, noticing a tremor in his voice: he swallowed it down. 'Try one more time. Once more, and then I promise to go if you want me to. I _do_ care.'

Snape's expression was unreadable as he eyes Harry from across the room; then came a few steps closer, and with a perfectly emotionless tone raised his wand and said, 'Legilimens.'

Harry was determined to succeed this time, or at least to do better than before, and he felt Snape's mind press at his own. After a triumphant half-second's resistance Snape burst in, and the memories…

_He was in the Department of Mysteries, standing on the platform, looking at the empty, billowing veil… at the Dursleys, with Aunt Marge's dogs chasing him up a tree… Dudley was stealing his lunch at school for the third day running, laughing as he ate it… sitting in his cupboard…_

No, he had to concentrate, had to block this out. He tried to ignore the stream of memories – could faintly see Snape and the rest of the room– but how to stop him?

He tried shoving at that invasive presence with his mind, tried blocking it, tried anything he could think of, but nothing had an effect, and Sirius was falling through the veil once more…

It ended: he was kneeling on the floor again.

'Out,' was the only thing Snape said, as he turned his back and stalked back to his desk. Harry pushed himself to his feet, realised he was shaking.

As he left, he paused with his hand on the doorframe. 'I do care,' he whispered, very quiet. He didn't know if Snape heard or not, because the professor made no noise.

He slipped out silently, closing the door behind him.

* * *

'I hope Harry's okay.'

Hermione glanced up from the book she was reading. Ginny was sitting beside her, arms crossed on the thickly padded arm of the chair she was sitting in, chin resting on her forearm in what couldn't be a comfortable way. She brushed a stand of hair out of her eyes with a vaguely irritated frown.

'So do I,' Hermione replied, 'but we aren't going to do him any favours worrying about it. You could do your homework.'

'I've done it,' Ginny muttered, closing her eyes. 'I wish I'd gone with Ron.' Ginny's brother had decided to creep off to the kitchens and get some Butterbeer, chocolate and sweets from Dobby, to help cheer Harry up when he got back.

'You could probably catch up with him, if you tried,' Hermione said noncommittally. She tried to return to her book – it was one of her favourite stories, and it was just getting to one of the most dramatic parts of the plot – but at that moment Dean came in, chatting casually to Seamus, and Ginny started gave him such a dark glare that Hermione couldn't help but be distracted.

'Look,' she said as Dean and Seamus dumped their schoolbags behind one of the sofas and headed back out again, 'are you ever going to talk about Dean, or are you going to do like Harry does and stay silent all the time?'

Ginny shrugged, which was quite an odd movement when sitting half-hunched over with her head in her arms. 'There's nothing to talk about.'

Hermione closed her book. 'The first-years certainly seem to be doing a very good job of making it into something to talk about, then, considering how much gossip I've heard on the topic,' she said.

'Hermione, there really is nothing to talk about. I admit I may have been a little… over-dramatic, but really, I'm fine,' Ginny replied firmly. 'I mean, I'm not really heartbroken or anything. If anything, I'm annoyed.'

'Because he was overreacting?'

Ginny nodded. 'Yes. Because he doesn't understand that…' She paused and looked up. 'That I have a life outside him. And that some things are more… more important than snogging in broom closets. I mean, I did like him,' she was quick to add,' and it wasn't all about kissing and things, but… well, I just got the feeling that he wanted me to be there whenever he needed me, regardless of what I was doing at the time.'

Hermione nodded, leaning on the arm of her own chair to see Ginny better. 'But you aren't upset?'

'No,' Ginny replied, with a single shake of her head. 'It'd been going on too long… really, when I broke up with him, I was just glad it was over. He's a really nice guy, and I still want to be friends with him, but as a boyfriend he's too possessive. So yes, I'm fine.'

Hermione gave her a relieved smile. 'That's good,' she said, 'I was afraid you were…'

And then she stopped, in the middle of her sentence, because Harry had just come in and all thoughts of Ginny and Dean faded from her mind.

'Harry!' she called, pushing herself out of her chair and fighting her way through the tangled maze of armchairs to the portrait hole, Ginny not far behind. 'Are you okay? What happened?'

She reached his side: he looked pale, his face rather tight. He shrugged. 'Not well.'

Hermione felt her heart sink – she could tell he was upset, but what could she do? Nothing. Beside her, Ginny tentatively reached out a hand but didn't touch him.

'Harry… do you need…'

He shook his head, taking a step back. 'I think I'd just like to be alone for a while,' he said quietly, before turning and making his way to the staircase that led to the boys' dorms.

Ginny and Hermione watched him go in wordless dismay.

* * *

_Like_ and _dislike_ were possibly two of the easiest emotions to sort out, Draco thought. Anything that made you feel good was something you liked; anything that made you feel bad was something you disliked.

He disliked the Slytherin common room. While it was fascinating – watching the groups shift and change, watching the political trends, spotting the various subtle displays of loyalty which no outsider would be able to understand. The colour-coding according to how they felt about Aberddewin, for example.

Yet for all that it was interesting, he disliked it. It was uncomfortable – the emotional equivalent of sitting on something lumpy, he thought. He wasn't welcome there: no one spoke to him, except for Blaise and Ellen, and both of them only spoke to him because they wanted something. Blaise wanted him to switch sides again, and Ellen wanted him to help protect her from the others.

He was spending more and more time outside the common room, now. Sometimes he went to the Library, to meet Hermione or just to study, to read. Sometimes he went flying, on his broomstick by day and on his wings by night. Sometimes, like now, he wandered the hallways aimlessly.

Hermione: that was an interesting point. He spent more time talking to her than to anyone else, these days. Ellen spoke to him perhaps once or twice a week, and he spoke to teachers in lessons, and he wrote letters to his mother: apart from that and occasional encounters – telling the first years where the dungeons were, or telling someone what time it was – the only person he spoke to was Hermione.

Hermione was something he liked. She was intelligent, certainly, and as his mother had said he needed someone he could ask about all the complexity of emotion. Hermione was willing to help, and able: Draco felt he was beginning to get things sorted out. Not the really complex ones, but most of the simpler ones he was almost used to, by now.

He wondered, sometimes, why she talked to him. Blaise and Ellen and the teachers and the first-years in the corridors had a reason, something they wanted out of him: Hermione didn't appear to. He'd thought about it quite a lot. There was nothing he could think of that she could want from him, no benefit she could gain from him by helping him with emotion.

And then, when they'd been studying for Potions together, he'd made a comment that made her laugh and had something like an epiphany. He'd been thinking too much in the terms of cold, Fallen, Slytherin logic, of associating with people because you wanted something from them.

It hadn't occurred to him until that moment that perhaps Hermione was helping him because she _liked_ to.

He found himself smiling at the memory as he passed out of a long-neglected corridor, turning onto the path that would take him back to the main areas of the dungeons, when something made him stop suddenly. There were voices up ahead. Snape and Delaney.

'Of course I agree, Severus, in principle at least, yet I feel that Muggleborns…'

The corridor he was in met a larger corridor at a T-junction: it was also quite dark, and if he stayed within it he would probably not be noticed. Which was exactly what he wanted. He shrank back against the wall and listened.

'Our bloodlines are diluted enough already,' Delaney was saying. 'A mingling of wizard and Muggle culture – bringing their music and clothing into our lives – might help to create better relations between wizard and Muggle, which would certainly be a good thing on principle. But it would already result in far more marriages between wizards and Muggles or Muggleborns, and then the wizarding race…'

'Wizarding race?' Snape asked, and Draco heard a rather dangerous note of ice in his voice. 'I was under the impression we were all human, Erebus.' They appeared to have paused in their walk.

'Of course we are. But it's obvious our kind is different from Muggles.' They hadn't reached the junction yet: Draco longed to be able to see the two teachers.

'So different that people with magical abilities can be born to two completely Muggle parents?' Snape was asking.

'Anomalies,' Delaney said, and the dismissal in his voice was clear. A tiny part of Draco's brain whispered _Hermione's not an anomaly_, but he ignored it, focussing on the conversation.

'Even when they _can_ have more magical talent than Purebloods? Even when they make up almost a quarter of the school's population?' Snape's voice was sharper than a knife: Draco shivered just to hear it.

'It's relatively rare for them to be more magical than a Pureblood, and when they are it's only because the magical bloodlines are becoming polluted with Muggle genes,' Delaney said. 'There's very few bloodlines left that are totally pure, you know – the Holdens, the Bennett-Edmonds, the Malfoys… Which reminds me, I meant to ask you something.'

They started walking again. 'What?' Snape asked, quite sharply.

'The Malfoy heir – Draco. He's in your house, I know: is he doing alright? After his change of alliances?'

Draco's eyes widened. This couldn't be what it sounded like…

'His marks are as good as ever,' Snape replied, and then they reached the junction with Draco's corridor: he shrank back into the shadow, his heart pounding, then they were past. 'He's doing well in his lessons.'

'That's not what I meant and you know it,' Delaney replied. 'You can do well in class and be dying inside. I want to know…'

'Erebus,' Snape cut in, and this time he sounded either weary or oddly gentle, 'I know you feel…'

In the distance, a door closed, and Snape was cut off mid-sentence.

Draco must have waited in the dimly-lit side corridor, staring at the opposite wall, for a full minute before he ventured out into the main hallway. His head was ringing with one single certainty.

Delaney was the spy.

* * *

It was nearly ten o'clock when someone – Ron – finally ventured into the boys' dorms to see Harry.

He was lying in his bed, face turned away from the door, and Ron wondered if Harry was sleeping. 'Harry?' he tried in something half a whisper, half normal speech.

There was no reply at all for a moment, then a sigh. 'I'm okay. Or I'll be okay. It's just…'

When nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, Ron tried, 'Snape?'

'Yeah. He's… well, you know what he's like.'

'Do you want me to stay?' Ron asked the figure on the bed. 'To talk, or something?'

'I'd probably be better alone. I'm really tired. Thanks, though,' came the reply.

Ron paused for a moment, then slowly crept up to the bed. 'I got you some stuff from the kitchen,' he offered, pressing the bottle of Butterbeer into one of Harry's hands, putting the bar of chocolate down by the pillow.

Harry's eyes flicked open, glanced towards the food, and he actually smiled, warmth spreading over his face. He pushed himself upright. 'Thanks.'

* * *

**A/N: **I have to say I'm quite eager to see your thoughts about this chapter, so get to that review box right now! Anyone who doesn't…. hmm. Tough call. I'm getting a bit tired of threats, to tell the truth. Let's try the other one – rewards. Everyone who reviews gets an hour in the company of the Fallen character of their choice, to do the activity of their choice. That's anything from throwing darts at their mutilated body to playing chess over a bottle of Butterbeer. (Have to say I'm also quite eager to see what you say about that too!)

Review!


	34. Fights Past, Present and Future

**Thanks for 1231 reviews goes to: **Rebecca15, ablakevh, Genevieve Jones, Jaid Zaien (x3), plumsy321, Nathonea, Catelina, J Deann, FalconWing, savvyfairy, kessi1011, samhaincat, Slytheravengryffinpuff, Alexi Lupin, draconas, RedWitch1, deathdefiance, Sickness in Salvation, A Ball Of Fire, midnight-blue, Meghan, SPARKLING EYES, langocska, Madam Midnight, SycoCallie, willowfairy, PhAnToM-ChiK, Nikki, KrystyWroth, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, msryanatwood, Stoneage Woman, Sparkling Cherries, brettley, finally-defeated (x2), Magellen-chan, Foxer, Velvetrose786, ToOtHpIcK (x2), haley, citcat299, Gizelle, Plaidly Lush, JoeBob1379, Izadora, Flexi Lexi, heavengurl899.

**A/N:** Yes, I'm sorry this chapter was late. And I'm also rally sorry, but I need a week off. That'll be from both Fallen and Macbeth, because I have far too much homework, illness and really low creative batteries. I need time to recharge; otherwise I'll just wear myself out and be completely unable to write anything decent. It _is_ very demanding doing two at once! So I hope you forgive me, and think of me with pity while I bundle up in lots of woolly clothing and two blankets to do my homework…

I was quite interested to see which character most people would like to spend time with (although for very interestingly different _purposes_…). I thought about it and decided I'd go for Draco – as most of you did – and I'd spend five minutes apologising for everything I've ever done/am going to do to him, forty-five minutes doing a photo shoot, and the remaining ten minutes forcing him into my new, incredibly warm, Gryffindor-red jumper and hugging him.

One thing I find fascinating about the reviews – you all like such different aspects, and have such different opinions. Especially over Delaney being the spy! And of course I might be bluffing, but then I might be double bluffing too. Or not bluffing at all. Only I and one other person know for sure! As for whether I'm giving away plot hints, the answer is: very often, yes. There's one thing, which ends up being pretty major, that absolutely no one's picked up on yet, though it's been mentioned quite a few times. It amuses me greatly. Finally: I generally either use quotes I know from various places or find them on the internet. I'm also sixteen and from sunny old England.

Onto the chapter – enjoy!

* * *

_And we must unite inside her_ _Or we'll crumble from within_

**_JK Rowling, The Order of the Phoenix_**

* * *

The owl came at breakfast, along with the rest of the post. It was a school owl, a common tawny, utterly plain and undistinguished – for secrecy, obviously. If Draco's eagle owl came swooping down with post, people would start asking questions. And their odd friendship was, for the time being at least, a secret.

The note was short and to the point.

_H,_

_Meet me in the library straight after breakfast; I have something important to tell you._

_-D._

Something important? A sense of worry began to coil itself, tightly as a sleeping snake, in Hermione's stomach. Was it something bad? Was something happening to his emotions? He could be changing back – or his mother might have sent him some news, or Lucius might be planning something…

'Meet who in the library?' Ginny's voice startled Hermione out of her thoughts; the redhead was leaning over to read the letter, spoon paused in a tub of yoghurt while she gave Hermione an inquisitive look. 'And what's so urgent?'

'I don't know,' Hermione said absently, frowning at the letter. Ginny watched her, and when it became apparent that no more was forthcoming, spoke.

'And? Who is this mysterious _D_? Why haven't you mentioned her?'

'Him,' Hermione corrected, coming up with a quick lie. 'And he's just an acquaintance I study with sometimes.' Which was partly true.

'Him?' echoed Ginny, a mischievous smile coming over her face. 'As in a boy?'

'Yes, as in a boy,' Hermione said. 'And don't get any ideas, Ginny Weasley, we're just friends. Like me and Harry or Ron. Nothing is going to happen.'

Ginny frowned, scooping up a large spoonful of yoghurt. 'But that's boring!' she complained.

'That's life,' Hermione replied. 'And you'd better be careful, you'll get as bad as Lavender and Parvati if you keep this up.'

'Having an interest in my friend's love lives does not make me anything like Lavender and Parvati,' Ginny replied sweetly. 'Is that toast I see down by Seamus? Pass me a slice, would you?'

Breakfast went on as normal after that. Hermione kept glancing at the Slytherin table between mouthfuls, but Draco wasn't there. Was he in the Library already, waiting for her?

She ate faster than she ever had before – earning a few choice comments about over-eagerness from Ginny – and hurried out of the hall quickly, giving Ron and Harry the excuse that she was 'Just going to the Library to study.'

As she left, she heard Ginny saying, 'It was that letter she got from a friend…'

Which meant Harry and Ron would be asking about him later, Hermione realised as she hurried through the empty hallways. And she'd have to explain it away with some vague story about an acquaintance and studying together… That was one of the hardest parts of being friends with Draco, she thought. Having to hide it from the others.

In effect, it divided her life – her self – neatly into two separate pieces. The part with Draco, which was concerned with emotions and half-Fallens and Lucius and spies; and the part with the Gryffindors, which was concerned with Ginny and Dean, Harry's feelings over Sirius and the encroaching prejudice. And the two could never meet.

She reached the Library, and began to weave her way through the complex tangle of shelves and books and tables. She knew the way well enough by now, after all, through the History of Magic section and a right at Transfiguration…

A voice interrupted her.

'… You're supposed to be Draco's friend and you're _abandoning_ him…'

Hermione froze. Draco? Who was talking?

The voices were coming from behind a bookcase. Quietly as she could, Hermione crept to the edge and peered round.

Blaise Zabini was sitting at a table some way away, an open book and piece of parchment in front of her, leaning back with a quill in her hand. She was scowling darkly at – to Hermione's surprise – Ellen, who was white and pale.

'Me?' Blaise asked with a scornful laugh. 'Abandoning him? _He_ abandoned _us_. And you're hardly any better, are you? Using him to get what bare shreds of status you can, to get a little protection from the Purebloods.'

Her voice was quite quiet; Hermione could barely make it out. Impatient, curious, she glanced around for a way to get closer: there were none, unless she showed herself, and then they'd stop talking.

'At least I care about him,' came Ellen's voice, trembling slightly. '_You_ don't.'

Blaise's face whipped around as though she'd been slapped. 'How _dare_ you say that,' she hissed, just on the cusp of Hermione's hearing. 'I've known him since I was four…'

'And now all of Slytherin's turned its back on him, and you're just sitting there cosily while he has no friends at all, no one but me and Hermione,' Ellen accused her bitterly. Hermione jumped at the sound of her name, and looked about wildly as though she were about to be discovered. Her heart was pounding.

'Hermione?' echoed Blaise, anger giving way to amazement. 'Hermione Granger?'

'She and I are the only ones who actually care,' Ellen said firmly.

Blaise laughed. 'Oh, and what a great way to show your supposed 'caring'. I'm not stupid, you know, I know whose side you're really on. And everyone knows you're only friends with him because you need protection.'

Ellen was silent for a moment. 'No,' she said at last. 'I do need the protection, but I care about him too.' She looked up, giving Blaise a challenging glare. 'We both know what it's like to be _outcasts_.'

Blaise flinched, her eyes flicking closed, then slowly opening, flat and calm. 'Get out,' she said, far too low, far too threatening.

'No,' Ellen said defiantly. 'I won't. Draco-'

Blaise was on her feet, wand out. 'I'd rather abandon him than be you, you Mudblood_ traitor_,' she hissed. 'Get. Out.'

Ellen took a step back: Blaise advanced. Ellen was in the DA, certainly, but she was only a first year, and Blaise a sixth year, and how could she defend herself? Using magic in the library was banned, but Blaise certainly looked like rules were the last thing on her mind at the moment.

Hermione drew her wand, glanced down to ensure her Prefect badge was pinned to the front of her robes, and stepped forward. 'Excuse me,' she said, surprising even herself with the cold politeness in her voice. 'Is something wrong?'

Blaise, fortunately, wasn't fool enough to hex a first-year in front of a Prefect. Her breathing was harsh and heavy as she lowered her wand, glowering. 'Nothing's wrong,' she said, before turning sharply on her heel and walking away, shoes clicking slightly on the hardwood floor.

Ellen glanced at Hermione. 'Thanks,' she said in a very quiet voice.

'Don't mention it,' Hermione replied. She pocketed her wand again. 'What were you fighting about, anyway?' She'd heard most of the argument, of course, but she didn't particularly want to admit she'd been listening.

Ellen shrugged. 'Draco,' she admitted. 'Blaise used to be his friend, and now she's abandoned him, and he… well, he doesn't have many friends. So I got a bit annoyed at her. And then she accused me of only trying to help him because he can protect me, and…' She frowned. 'It is partly that, but also… We're both outcasts. That's…'

She trailed off then, but Hermione gave her a smile. 'I understand.'

'Good,' Ellen replied. A little of the colour was returning to her face. 'Is he… okay? I mean, I know you're his friend…'

Hermione wondered what Ellen would say if she replied truthfully. _Oh, he's getting better, he can figure out most of the basic emotions now, but the more complex ones still elude him_. She smiled at the thought. 'He's getting better.'

'Good,' Ellen said again. 'I'd… I'd better go, anyway. Thanks for stopping Blaise.'

'You don't need to thank me, you know,' Hermione told her. 'I'd better go too, I'm meant to be meeting someone…'

'Draco?' Ellen asked perceptively, and she grinned when Hermione nodded a yes. 'I'll see you later, then. The next DA meeting's on Monday, isn't it?'

'Monday,' Hermione agreed. 'Bye, then.'

'Bye,' replied Ellen, before vanishing into the bookshelves.

_Draco_. However interesting the argument had been, his letter that morning has sounded urgent. He was probably waiting for her, wondering where she was – breakfast was almost over.

Turning, she hurried through the bookcases, heading for their usual place. She shouldn't have stopped to talk to Ellen, even for a minute. Draco was waiting; she'd known that, and what if it _was_ bad news…?

Draco, when she found him, was sitting in his usual place with a book, toying with the corner of the page inattentively. He looked up when she arrived.

'I'm sorry,' Hermione began, 'I would have been here sooner, but Blaise and Ellen were fighting and-'

'Blaise? Ellen?' Draco interrupted, frowning. 'Over what?'

'You,' Hermione replied, sliding into her seat. The look of alarm on Draco's face was almost comical. 'Oh, don't worry, it was just… well, it's a bit complicated. And you should tell me whatever it is you wanted to tell me first. It's not… bad news, is it?'

He looked doubtful. 'It's not bad news, but it's not exactly good news either,' he said slowly. He glanced at her, held her gaze for a moment, than sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said, 'The spy. It's Delaney.'

Hermione supposed that she should feel shock, or surprise, or amazement, or at the very least some bitterness and hatred for the Defence Professor. Instead, what she felt was relief – relief that the news wasn't bad, relief that they knew who it was. 'You found proof, then?'

He nodded grimly. 'I overheard Delaney and Snape talking,' he said. 'I also found out that you were right: Delaney's prejudiced.'

'What happened?' she asked, leaning forwards over the table. 'What did they say?'

'As well as I can remember it… They were talking about Muggleborns, and Delaney was saying they were inferior – the usual Pureblood arguments,' Draco said with a note of distaste. 'Then the conversation moved onto Pureblood families and onto me; Delaney asked Snape how I was, Snape said my schoolwork was good, Delaney said that wasn't what he meant. Then they went through a door and I couldn't hear any more.'

Hermione listened to this in grim silence. 'I don't think you could get any more conclusive evidence than that,' she said. 'It was Delaney who brought you up? And wanted to know about you?'

Draco nodded. 'It's a relief to know, in some ways. At least now I can avoid him. Watch him. Feed him false information, perhaps…' He leant back in his chair, thinking for a moment, then shook his head. 'I can think of things like that later. While we're both here; do you feel like studying for that Transfiguration test we're having on Monday?

* * *

'Are you looking forward to the tryouts tomorrow?' Ginny asked, an amused smile on her face.

Harry glanced up; he hadn't really considered it. 'I don't know,' he replied with a shrug. 'I guess so. It won't be as fun as a proper practice, though.'

'Well, it'll be interesting to see the new players, at least,' Ginny said, shifting her broomstick into her other hand. They were just returning from a practice – mainly to get the established players back into the idea of things, and also to get an idea of what they were looking for in their new players. Ron had stayed behind to do some practice flying by himself, which left Harry and Ginny to walk back to the caste together.

'I hope we get some decent people trying out,' Harry said thoughtfully. 'If we want to win the Cup, we need good players…'

'We have _you_,' Ginny pointed out. 'The rest of the team could be deaf and blind and Gryffindor would still win.'

Harry snorted. 'Don't be ridiculous, there's no way I could catch the Snitch in time,' he said. 'The other team would only need to score fifteen times, and with no opposition…'

'Alright, alright,' Ginny cut him off, laughing. 'I was only joking.'

They were quiet for a time, walking companionably back to the castle while the Quidditch pitch grew smaller and smaller behind them. It was quiet; just the sound of the wind, and the sound of their breathing, and the sound of their feet hitting the ground – sometimes in time, sometimes not.

'I read an article about that once, actually,' Ginny said, breaking the silence suddenly. Harry looked, up, confused.

'Article?' he asked. 'About what?'

'About blind people playing Quidditch,' Ginny replied. 'They can cure blindness at St Mungo's, of course, but there's some Dark curses that take ages to heal, or some of them never get better. Anyway, they had fourteen of them once, so they decided to have a game of Quidditch.'

'How did that work?' Harry asked curiously.

'They charmed the balls to make a noise, of course,' Ginny replied. 'And the brooms, so they could hear when another player was approaching, and the hoops so they knew where to throw the Quaffle. Different sounds for each, of course, else you'd have tried to catch a Beater by accident. The Snitch made a really quiet tinkling noise, to make it hard to catch, and the Bludgers made this really loud noise, and things like that.'

'Did that work?' Harry asked curiously.

'Pretty much,' Ginny said. 'I think one of the Chasers got hit in the head with a Bludger, but it cured her blindness, so that was alright…'

They reached the school; Ginny paused in the entrance Hall. 'Are you going back to Gryffindor? Would you take my broom?'

'Sure,' Harry agreed, frowning. 'Where are you going?'

'I need to see one of the professors about some homework…' she explained, looking guilty. Harry guessed exactly what she needed to see them about.

'You didn't do it?' he asked, and Ginny's expression told him he was right. 'What's your excuse?'

'We had a leaf from one of Sprout's plants – it's Herbology homework – and we had to find out what the plant was. Except my leaf got crushed in my schoolbag and I can't even tell what colour it was originally anymore. And we all had different leaves, so I can't borrow someone else's…' she trailed off. 'Don't tell Hermione, she'll get annoyed with me…'

'Don't worry, I'll keep it secret.' Harry replied. 'I'm sure Sprout won't be too mad…'

'She shouldn't be,' Ginny agreed. 'Here, take my broom. Either keep it in the common room until I get back or ask one of the girls to take it up for me.'

Harry nodded, 'Will do,' he said, and watched, frowning, as Ginny smiled and turned around. 'Ginny?' he said, even before he'd made the decision to say it.

She paused, turned round. 'What?'

'I just wanted to say…' he began, then stopped. What on earth had possessed him to say this? 'Er. Thanks for, you know, with Dean… for defending me, I guess,' he said eloquently.

Ginny laughed a little – an amused, pleased laugh, not a cruel one – and stepped towards him. 'You've no need to thank me,' she said firmly. 'I don't think he really knew what he was saying, but he said it and I just… saw red, I guess. And don't feel guilty about us splitting up,' she added suddenly, 'because none of that was your fault. If we hadn't split up then we'd have split up a day or two later over something else.'

Harry felt quite startled – how had she known he'd felt guilty over that? 'Okay, I won't,' he said, and was quite surprised to find that he really didn't. 'And thanks.'

'Any time,' she said with a wide smile, and seemed to start to move before she stopped herself, frowning, and shook her head. 'Anyway, I'd better go,' she said. 'I have to see a woman about a leaf.'

* * *

'What are you reading?' Lavender asked, throwing herself down on her bed and yawning. She turned onto her front. 'Good book?'

'Mmm,' Hermione affirmed, tilting the cover so that Lavender could see the gold gilt title.

Lavender read the title off the front, then frowned. '_The Dark Is Rising?_ I've not heard of that one,' she said.

'It's a Muggle book,' Hermione replied. 'Well, a series, there's five of them.' She turned the page, then glanced up. 'Do you want to borrow it? It's really good, it's about…'

Lavender was looking doubtful. 'I don't know. I… I'll leave it,' she said. 'Why are you reading a _Muggle_ book, anyway?'

'Because I was brought up as a Muggle,' Hermione pointed out confused, 'and I happen to like this book.' She saw Lavender's expression and froze. There was confusion there, and just the tiniest bit of fear…

'Lavender,' Hermione said quickly, sitting up straight, 'It's a Muggle book. It's not going to explode, and Death Eaters aren't going to jump out of it and kill you.' She offered it to her. 'Here, take it and read it. It's good.'

'I don't know…' Lavender said slowly 'You're reading it, and-'

'I've already read it once. Take it,' Hermione insisted, and Lavender took it, rather unwillingly.

'Thanks, I'll read it tomorrow,' Lavender said, tried to give her a smile, then slipped it into her bedside drawer. Parvati came in, then, and started a new conversation with Lavender.

Hermione didn't take part in the conversation; she lay back on her bed feeling slightly nauseous. It was starting, even here, even in her own dormitory. The others – apart from Harry and Ron, and Ginny – would say she was overreacting if she told them, but Hermione knew how these things began.

You started off being unwilling to read a book, and ended up being unwilling to talk to a person. And when you wouldn't talk to them, wouldn't associate with them, how easy it became to class them as not-human, to treat them as not-human. And then you got Voldemort, and Death Eaters, and war.

It took her a long time to get to sleep that night.

**A/N: **And onto reviews, before I fall asleep where I sit. Reviewers will get any magical (or non-magical item from the HP world) they desire. Me, I want a Pensive. Imagine how brilliant that'd be for storing and organising fic ideas!

I'll see you all… Monday after next, for Macbeth, and Friday after next for Fallen. Review!


	35. Umbrella

**Chapter 34: Umbrella**

**Disclaimer:** I sometimes sit here and wonder if anyone reads these things. How interesting can it be, really, to find out that I don't own Harry Potter? I think in future, to save time composing disclaimers, I should just type something else in here. Like, say, Hamlet. To disclaim or not to disclaim; that is the question; whether 'tis nobler in the fic to suffer the courts and suing of outrageous lawyers, or to take arms against a sea of copyrights and by disclaiming end them.

**Thanks for 1274 reviews goes to: **draconas, foxer, plumsy321, Madam Midnight, Flexi Lexi (x2), midnight blue, Kiyoko, SycoCallie, citcat299, Erica G, B.B.T.W, Meghan, Sparkling Cherries, sad-soulz, Nathonea, J. Deann, FalconWing, Crystella, Alexi Lupin, KrystyWroth, PinkTribeChick, savvyfairy, Nikki, Natalie Garner, brettley, Plaidly Lush, jules37, Go10, Persephone Snodhatch-Sna, Stoneage Woman, PinkTribeChick, Slytheravengryffinpuff, storm079 (x3), Angel-Wings-Forever, ToOtHpIcK, Janie Granger, Storm079.

**A/N:** As to Lavender's blood-status; it isn't actually mentioned in canon whether she's Muggleborn, Pureblood, half-blood etc. (To the best of my knowledge; and I did double-check with various websites. If I'm wrong, tell me what she is and where it says it!) In the absence of evidence, I chose to make her Pureblood, because it fits the fic better.

If you want me to contact you – the review system seems to be removing the name of the e-mail provider from the review, so I get 'Iamme' and nothing else. Which obviously makes it very hard to me to get in touch! Putting your e-mail address in your name, rather than in the main review, seems to work, so try that.

You have no idea how thankful I am that it's half term. I'm going to post this up and go collapse in my cosy bed. On thing I have to be thankful for is that I now have an actual excuse to play Sims2, as my English Language coursework involves writing a review of said game (which will, apparently, get me more marks than writing a story. Anyone else find this odd?) So no, mum I'm not playing – I'm doing important research. Honestly! Don't worry, I'll still have time for writing!

And now, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_Do not protect yourself by a fence, but rather by your friends._

**_Czech Proverb._**

* * *

Harry had always liked dusk.

It seemed an odd thing to like, really – the Boy Who Lived ought to like everything light, bright and sunlit, and hate the shadows and the darkness. Perhaps it was because, as a child, the nights had always been his own time, his private time, away from his uncle's orders and his aunt's scowls and Dudley's child-minded viciousness. Even if he was sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs.

Dusk was falling now, as Harry trudged back up to the school from the Quidditch tryouts, and the air felt cool, fresh and invigorating. Where fires were lit within the castle the windows glowed a soft gold – the highest point of light, right at the top of the school, was Gryffindor House – and the effect was cheering.

The Quidditch tryouts had gone well. Five people had tried out to be Chasers; there were a couple of third-years who'd played well as Chasers, and Ginny seemed to get on with them despite the two-year age gap. When it came to Beaters, Harry was a little more divided – two of those who'd tried out had shown promise, but they appeared to be deadly enemies. Which posed the difficult question for whether he should ask both of them to be on the team and work together, or have one of them and ask a less-talented person to be the second Beater for the sake of team unity.

Harry was optimistic, at any rate, about the team's chances in this year's Cup. As long as they trained hard and got the new players into shape, they should have no problems.

The others were walking just a little way ahead of him; they'd started out at the same time, but he'd fallen gradually behind. If he listened closely, he could just hear their chatter, soft and rhythmic with the occasional chaotic laugh. Why didn't he catch up to them?

He'd been spending too much time alone, not joining in. He'd been worse at the beginning of term, of course, when he'd barely spoke. But sometimes his attention still wandered, or he didn't want to be around people. Sometimes he just felt like being alone, by himself, where he could think what he wanted without having to consider whether it'd worry Hermione or make Ron frown, or cause Ginny to touch his arm lightly and ask, 'Harry?' Even when he wasn't thinking about Sirius, or the Prophecy, or anything like that. It was still sometimes nice to be alone, to be quiet.

He walked along for a minute or two in silence, watching the sky turn slowly indigo above him, until he heard someone fall into step beside him. Glancing sideways, he saw that it was Ginny.

'Do you know who you're choosing?' she asked. Her face was still flushed from the practice.

Harry shrugged. 'Pretty much,' he replied.

Ginny nodded, then glanced upwards. 'It's a nice night.'

They carried on up to the castle in companionable silence. Harry found that he didn't mind too much.

* * *

'What on earth is the point of the beetle shells?' Ginny asked, furiously scribbling something out with her quill. 'You just sieve them out again afterwards, and they don't do anything…'

Hermione glanced upwards. 'Beetle shells? In which potion?' she asked, pulling Ginny's parchment towards herself and leaning over to see. 'Oh, the Eluvio Potion,' she said, and frowned. 'The beetle shells make the Knarl quills mix with the oak sap, because otherwise they'd just float around on top instead of dissolving into the sap. So when you put the beetle shells in… it's a bit complicated,' she finished. 'Do you have your textbook? There's a section on it in there…'

Ginny did have her textbook, and Hermione rapidly flicked through to the right page. 'You'd better hurry up with that,' she said, glancing at her watch, 'it's already… ten to eight? Oh, no…' she groaned, 'I've got to get to the Library…'

'And leave me to do my Potions essay all alone?' Ginny asked, pressing a hand to her forehead with pretended melodrama.

'You aren't alone, Harry and Ron are here. They can help,' Hermione said, getting to her feet and swinging her schoolbag onto her shoulder.

'My brother? With Potions?' Ginny asked incredulously. Hermione laughed, and was just about to say goodbye and head down to the Library when Ginny spoke again. 'What are you going to the Library for?' she asked, curious.

'To, er, study,' Hermione replied, wishing desperately as she said it that she had a better excuse.

Ginny gave a rather wicked smile. 'Ooo, are you meeting the mysterious D again?'

'There's nothing mysterious about him,' Hermione said firmly, hoping her face wasn't turning red. 'We study together, that's all.'

Ginny laughed. 'Don't get upset, Hermione, I'm only teasing,' she grinned. 'Go on, have fun studying with Mysterious D. You'll be late if you stand around any longer.'

* * *

When she found him in the library – only five minutes late – he was reading what looked like a letter.

'Your mum?' she asked, by way of greeting, and slid into her usual seat. He looked up, nodding.

'I wrote to her and told her I suspected Delaney of being the spy,' he said simply. 'She doesn't know much about him, though. Want to read?'

Hermione reached out a hand, than paused. 'Do you mind?'

He shook his head, so she took the parchment and began reading.

_My dearest son,_

_I know little about Erebus Delaney, I'm afraid, and I've certainly never seen him at the Manor or heard Lucius mention his name in conversation. That means little, of course – in choosing a spy, Lucius wouldn't choose someone too closely connected with him, and certainly wouldn't mention him to me. Not when he suspects me of being in contact with you._

_What I do know about him you probably already know: he is a Pureblood of one of the reasonably old and reasonably wealthy bloodlines. His immediate family, for what I know, isn't connected with Voldemort, although his second cousin was one of the Death Eaters given the Kiss immediately after the Dark Lord was first defeated. You mentioned that Erebus appeared to dislike Mudbloods, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's a Death Eater. Of course, it doesn't mean that he isn't, either, and it's impossible to tell whether his loyalties lie with the Dark Lord or not._

_I wish I could be of more help. It goes without saying that I'll keep my eyes open for any news. _

_As to emotion: I wouldn't worry about how long it's taking. It seems to me that you've learnt an incredible amount in such a short space of time – we must thank Hermione for that, I imagine! – even if to you it seems like barely anything. There are a lot of emotions, and above that, subtle gradients of emotion. It will, of course, take you time to learn what they are. I have every faith, however, in the fact that you can and will learn them._

_Your loving mother,_

_Narcissa._

Hermione put the letter down, frowning, and watched it change back into a collection of meaningless pleasantries. The letter gave her far too much to think about.

'So she doesn't know much,' Hermione said, picking the easiest thought to get out of the way first. 'Did you expect her to?'

'Not particularly,' Draco replied. 'Father doesn't tell her much.'

Hermione nodded, then reached out to touch the parchment again, scanning the letter through once more. 'Did anything strike you as… odd about this?' she asked carefully.

'Odd? No,' he replied, leaning over. 'Why, is there something…?'

'It's not odd, necessarily, it's just…' Hermione paused, biting her lip; her fingers fluttered over a particular line. Draco read it, read it again, and appeared to realise what she meant.

'Oh,' he said, frowning. 'She said…'

'Mudblood,' Hermione finished, quite quietly, then leant back in her chair, letting the parchment turn back to its usual form.

'She isn't prejudiced, if that's what you're thinking,' Draco said, picking up the letter and glancing through it again. 'I think it was just an accident…'

'Accident?' Hermione asked, more sharply than she meant to; he felt the irrational beginnings of tears and blinked them away. 'How can you say _that_ as an accident?'

Draco glanced at her, frowning. 'Don't... don't get upset,' he said, sounding more anxious than anything. 'And it would have been an accident. You have to think of how she grew up, how she lives now.'

'What does that have to do with-'

'Because her family, when she was a child, would have used that word, her husband says it, most of her social group of friends will say it…' He paused. 'I used to say it, remember? I probably still would if it didn't upset you. Among Purebloods… well, we use it all the time informally. If it were a formal letter she wouldn't use it. She probably didn't even think. Remember she didn't know you were going to read it.'

'That's still no excuse for using it,' she replied, though she did feel better, and rather annoyed at herself for even being upset by it. It was only a word…

'I'll write her a letter and tell her not to use it,' Draco said seriously. 'She'll want to write you a formal apology, of course, and probably send you some compensation as well, a few hundred Galleons should do it…'

'_What_?' Hermione asked, sitting upright in her seat. 'Don't you think that's a little excessive?'

'Of course not,' Draco replied, looking scandalised at the very idea. 'It was an _insult_. That used to be punishable by death, in Pureblood circles at least. Really she should come down here and beg your forgiveness on her knees, but obviously, circumstances being as they are…'

Hermione was giving him a long, suspicious stare. 'Draco Malfoy,' she said eventually, 'you're completely making this whole thing up, aren't you?'

He laughed. 'Yes,' he admitted, with a wide and slightly evil grin. 'But it cheered you up, didn't it?'

Lacking anything heavier, she hit him with the letter. 'Perhaps,' she said. 'I assume she isn't going to write a formal apology, then?'

'Well, she might,' Draco said thoughtfully, 'if I pointed it out to her. Not a formal one, though. Probably an apology. I won't tell her, though, unless you want me to.'

Hermione shook her head. 'I guess we may was well forget it,' she said, then picked the letter up once again. 'So she definitely isn't prejudiced?'

'No,' Draco replied, shaking his head, 'she was never like that. She came from a Pureblood family – typical blood prejudice – but her sister married a Muggleborn, and I think my mother has similar ideas. I don't have a clue why she married my father, I'd have thought he'd be the last person she wanted as a husband. Especially being half-Fallen…'

Hermione frowned, remembering the tapestry she'd see at 12 Grimmauld Place. 'She was a Black, wasn't she?'

Draco frowned. 'How did you know that?'

'It's… complicated,' Hermione found herself saying. Telling Draco about the tapestry and where she'd seen it would mean explaining about Sirius, which would involve Harry and get into far too tangled a tale. 'It'd take too long to explain.'

'Or you just don't want to,' Draco remarked wryly. 'It's okay, I don't mind. I just found it odd that you knew.'

Hermione, meanwhile, was frowning at the parchment, struck with a sudden idea. 'Draco?' she asked. 'If you taught me that spell, do you think I could write to your mother, too?'

'I don't see why not, if we come up with a plausible person for you to be,' Draco replied, frowning. 'Why?'

'I just thought it'd be useful, that's all,' Hermione replied. 'I could… tell her what had been going on, things like that. Find out more about Fallens. I mean, I could just send it as part of your letter, if you wanted…'

'I'll ask my mother and see what she thinks,' Draco replied. 'It might be easier; or she might prefer to send them separately.' He shrugged, picking up the letter and putting at away neatly in his schoolbag. 'To the usual topic, then? I read something about _hope_ in a book earlier…'

* * *

The common room that night was a perfect example of Slytherin politics in action.

After talking to Hermione, he'd written a letter to his mother, gone up to the Owlery and sent it, and returned to the common room. Ellen had been there, in her usual corner, doing homework, and she'd asked him something about Knarls. He'd sat down to explain it to her, and they'd started talking when she finished her homework about nothing in particular.

After about five minutes of this Draco became conscious that the circle of unoccupied chairs near Ellen was growing even wider, which was odd. The Slytherins still hated the Muggleborn's presence, but after weeks of living with her the social protocol had become established. Ellen was always relegated to this dark corner, where none but her friends would ever go, as though she were in a specified quarantine zone. People would come up to the edge of the circle but no further.

And now the circle was widening. It wasn't blatant, but subtle; people would innocently cross the common room to speak to a friend, perhaps, or go to the toilet and sit in a different place when they came back. But the circle was clearly widening.

Draco gave a few surreptitious glances towards the common room and shortly spotted what was going on – Blaise. She and the other highest-circle Slytherins were sitting together, as usual, talking quietly; Blaise was giving Ellen dark looks. And of course, the Slytherins always followed the moods and whims of the highest circles, either as an attempt at integration or a simple desire not to get caught up with whoever was today's scapegoat.

Obviously, there was a reason for Blaise's actions. Hermione had mentioned that she'd heard the two fighting, though she hadn't mentioned why, and he couldn't imagine a reason except for Ellen's parentage. And that didn't explain why now, why so much anger.

Ellen would know; but he couldn't ask her openly. There may be a large space around them, but people would be eavesdropping, and it only took a Hearing-Enhancement charm to listen in. That wasn't a difficulty, though, it just meant subtlety was required.

He waited until she was looking at him. 'I hear there's going to be storms tonight,' he said, and gave a deliberate quick glance in Blaise's direction. To anyone eavesdropping, it would sound like he was merely commenting on the weather, but hopefully that quick glance would tell Ellen he was speaking about something else. A storm that wasn't wind and rain, but politics and social subtleties. Blaise.

For a moment he thought she wouldn't understand what he meant -that was _worry_ – but she simply leaned back in her chair, casually, and said, 'I heard, a bad one too. The rain will churn all the mud up, it'll get all over our shoes when we go to Herbology.'

Ellen, normally, never showed any interest in the state of her shoes -which was a subtle hint that she'd understood him and was also speaking in double meanings. Draco relaxed. What she'd said was simple; a confirmation of what he'd said and an admission that she was afraid. They'd already connected Blaise with the storm, so the rain was the by-product of Blaise's actions. The mud – Mudblood – was Ellen. In other words, she was worried that because Blaise was angry with her, some of the Slytherins would try to attack her again.

Draco laughed. 'I'll lend you an umbrella, if you need one.' Umbrellas for protection from rain, or protection from the Slytherins.

She smiled. 'Thanks.' No translation was needed for that.

'Wonder what's caused this weather?' Draco asked thoughtfully. 'It was fine a while ago. A little cold, of course, but…'

'No idea,' Ellen replied, frowning, when with a childish giggle, added, 'Maybe all the dragons have flown away for the winter and taken their fire with them, so that's why the weather's cold.'

Draco provided the obligatory indulgent laugh, but inside he felt… as though someone had struck a tuning fork against his spine. He had to ask Hermione that one… Dragons meant himself, Draco, and that meant he was involved. But how? Flown away from the winter, and that made Blaise angry… well he hadn't flown away, had he? He was still here.

His attention was distracted at this point by a pair of fourth-years; both boys, both social climbers, creeping up behind Ellen. Mildly, his tone disinterested, he remarked, 'I believe it's about to rain.'

To her benefit, Ellen didn't start, or look around, or give any indication of the news he'd given her. 'I suppose this is where the mud gets splattered all over?' she asked.

'Umbrella,' Draco replied, drawing his wand from his pocket and toying with it idly, keeping his eyes on the boys at all times. They looked nervous at this, but another friend joined them and there was quiet but determined discussion. Probably strategy. Draco knew what his strategy was; as soon as they attacked, fire off a shield so Ellen wasn't hit, then say something threatening about his knowledge of Dark Arts. If that didn't intimidate them enough, and they persisted, he'd have to use one; there were some the Hogwarts wards could not detect and he knew them all perfectly.

In the meantime, what had Ellen meant about dragons? Flying away had to be metaphorical; he'd left something behind, and that had upset Blaise, enough for her to be angry with Ellen. What…

And suddenly it all made sense: Blaise and he had been friends, and now they weren't; that was the 'fire' he'd taken away. And that was why Blaise was angry; she was jealous. For some reason, this annoyed Draco incredibly – some hot unreasonable burst of anger. It had, after all, been Blaise's own choice not to be friends with him, after he'd changed sides, and she had no reason to be hostile towards Ellen. Draco risked a glance at her, where she sat regally in the middle of the room, watching the three boys who were lurking behind Ellen. The common room, at this point, was completely silent.

And then it came.

'_Evome Serpentes!_'

'_Protego!_' Draco snapped immediately; his shield deflected the beam of red light that had been heading for Ellen's back. She hadn't even flinched, but now turned round, so she could see both Draco and her attackers.

There was silence for about half a second, before Draco said, quite calmly and quietly, 'You are all aware of my reputation with the Dark Arts. I assure you that my ability remains undiminished, and that there are numerous spells which can be performed within Hogwarts without setting off alarms,' he said, feeling adrenalin rush through his blood. This was dangerous, yes, but thrilling in a way. 'If you persist in attacking Ellen, I shall be left with no other option.'

The boys shared a glance. 'Why are you defending a _Mudblood_?' one of them, the most daring, asked with a sharp sneer.

'Why are you _not_?' Draco asked in reply. This meant nothing, of course; it was a prelude to the fight, to the final decision. Time bought.

Two of the boys remained uncertain, but the third who'd just spoken scoffed. 'Filthy Mudblood,' he spat, then raised his wand, pointed it at Ellen.

Draco didn't even give him a chance to cast his spell. '_Incende Ipse!_' he called, pointing his wand straight and true across the common room; the light was purple. There were gasps as it struck to the boy, who dropped his wand, screamed and fell to the ground, whimpering, bathed in purple light which ran over his skin and patterned it with burns, with flames. His friends yelled and dropped beside him, not out of pain but out of fear for their friend, who was crying…

Draco cut off the spell, breathing hard, not from exertion – for a half-Fallen these spells were easy – but some something else, some indefinable thing which set his heart beating fast, something which felt like both fear and horror and other things. Ellen, beside him, was white.

They helped the boy back to his seat; any evidence of a spell now gone. It was a nasty one, borderline Dark Arts as Draco had said, causing the victim – while he was under the spell's direct effect – to be essentially allergic to himself, breaking out into burns. It ended as soon as the spell was dropped, of course, with no physical effects, but…

He'd only used it to protect Ellen, hadn't he? They wouldn't have been shy about leaving her a few scars. But they wouldn't have used Dark Arts.

'Don't be upset,' Ellen whispered beside him, and he started – had he been that transparent? 'You did it for the right reasons. If you… if you want to go, you probably can; no one else will dare to try anything tonight, not after…'

After this. Draco nodded, getting to his feet. 'You're right,' he said. 'I should… I'll go.'

He wanted to be anywhere but here, anywhere that would take his mind off what had just happen, simplify the confuses mess of emotions swirling inside him. Without looking back, he headed for the way out. Whispers followed behind.

* * *

**A/N: **'Evome Serpentes' translates to 'Vomit Snakes' – thanks to Dina for suggesting that particular nicety. 'Incende Ipse' means 'Burn Yourself.' 'Eluvio', the name of the potion Ginny was doing homework on, means 'deluge'.

The scene I most enjoyed writing in this chapter had to be the last one. It was quite simply fun. And that brings me to a question – what was your favourite chapter or scene of the fic so far? And, if possible, why? No real reason, just interest. I want to know what I'm doing right!

Now, you see the review button? Hit it… you know you want to… Review!


	36. First Tear

**Chapter 35: First Tear**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter; all I own are two parents intent on teaching me how to cook. In the past two days, I have made two meals I've never made before. Both involved large quantities of cheese, as, due to a rather amusing lack of communication between parents, I also own two large blocks of cheddar cheese. If you want to sue, you can have them. You can also have the secret family recipe for macaroni cheese! Oh, I also own a Harry-Potter pumpkin. It has a lightning-bolt scar and everything. You can't have that!

**Thanks for 1328 reviews goes to: **Go10, Sparkling Cherries, anon, jules37, Saraiyu, Nathonea, Lady Isis, Rebecca15, haley, FalconWing, Arafel2, Nikki, PhAnToM-ChiK, samhaincat, Kunochi, aicila, Stoneage Woman, PinkTribeChick, KrystyWroth, draconas, langocska, RedWitch1, SPARKLING EYES (x2), jaderabbit, Plaidly Lush, Erica G., Madam Midnight, ToOtHpIcK, hyparly4suger, SycoCallie, Alexi Lupin, mesmer, Slytheravengryffinpuff, Scaz85, citcat299, brettley, Eternal fire1, Genevieve Jones, Janie Granger (x2), PsYcHoJo, heavengurl899, WeirdSistaz, Shoe Malfoy, Sickness in Salvation, Jenie, Cyhiraeth, JoeBob1379, willowfairy, storm079, waterfall-of-light, Crystella Shan.

**A/N:** On favourite parts: I've gone through all your reviews, and the favourite scene overall was the Trust Game. All I can say is I'm really pleased so many of you liked it – when I wrote it I was terrified it was OOC! One thing that interested me was that the vast majority of you had a personal favourite scene that no one else had – there were 16 mentioned overall. As to my favourite scene; I have three, and none of them have happened yet.

I do read fanfiction when I have free time, but it tends to be things recommended by various sites, people, et cetera – it's a lot easier to find good quality fic that way! Though most of it isn't on this site, sadly, so I don't have any favourite stories/authors in my profile. Which is a bit of an oversight, really – I should try to browse round here more often!

Anyway, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_A good friend sees the first tear, catches the second and stops the third._

**_Unknown._**

* * *

_5. Describe, using diagrams where appropriate, the difference between the transfiguration of a mouse into a notebook and that of a hamster into a notebook._

Hermione read the question through twice carefully, as she always did, before reaching for a fat textbook and turning to the index. Hamsters… hamsters… it had to be something to do with anatomy, so… ah, page 204. She turned to the right page and started reading.

After about five minutes – by which time she had found the information she needed and started writing her answer – she heard footsteps behind her. People walked past her alcove all the time, so she didn't pay them much attention until they stopped, and a voice said, 'Hermione?'

It was Draco's voice, oddly hollow. She turned round, startled, to see him standing between two bookshelves, staring at her, his skin far too pale in contrast to the warm woods of the bookshelves, the soft cream of the parchment.

'Draco?' she said, twisting round in her seat to face him properly. 'We hadn't arranged to meet, had we? I have a DA meeting in half an hour…' Then, frowning slightly, she added, 'Is something wrong?'

He laughed a little; an odd, delicate laugh that was too high-pitched. '_I _don't know,' he said, vehemently, almost as if he were accusing her. Then, 'I… it's all…'

'Did something happen?' Hermione asked, guardedly, to which he nodded, biting his lip and looking suddenly downcast. For an instant, he made her think of a little boy who'd got lost in the library and couldn't find his way out.

She knew he probably wasn't in the best mood to share that observation, though. Closing her book – the homework was due the day after tomorrow, but Draco was more important – she asked, quite simply, 'What?'

He leant against the bookcase. 'Some of the third years tried to attack Ellen,' he said, closing his eyes.

'What? Who?' Hermione demanded. 'Did you tell Professor Snape?'

He sneered. 'Like that would have done anything,' he spat. 'A detention wouldn't have stopped them doing it again. I…' he paused, an odd flicker on his face, 'dealt with it.'

'If you're sure…' Hermione replied, frowning. She'd still have felt better if a teacher had known. 'What did they do? Why did it happen? I mean, why now, they've lived…'

'Stop asking _questions_!' he half-shouted. 'Do you have to know _everything_? I mean…' He took a deep breath, slumping against the shelves. 'I didn't mean that. I'm just a little…'

He didn't say what he was just a little of, but Hermione could tell that there was something wrong. Trying to make herself keep calm, she replied, 'It's okay. I just…'

There was a pause. Draco was leaning against the bookshelves with his head tipped back and his eyes screwed tightly shut, hair slightly messy, as though he'd run a hand through it or clutched at it tightly on his way here.

'They attacked her from behind,' he said eventually, his voice monotonous, and she shivered. 'Or tried to. I stopped them with a shield charm, warned them to stop…'

'Did they?' Hermione asked. Her mouth was dry. 'Shouldn't you… shouldn't you be there now? I mean, they might attack her again…'

'They won't,' Draco replied shortly, very firmly, then gave a bitter little laugh. 'Believe me, they won't…'

The silence that followed was eerie and slightly ominous; Draco was biting his lip, hard.

'Why not?' Hermione asked, trying to sound calm, as if she wasn't afraid of hearing the answer. The way he'd said it…

Draco shrugged. 'It's not important. I scared them, I suppose…'

'What did… what did you do?'

He scowled. 'Why do you assume it's something _I_ did?' he asked, voice harsh and bitter. 'It was _their_ fault, if they hadn't attacked her I wouldn't have had to…'

The silence, when he stopped speaking-mid sentence, was as heavy and thick as a Death Eater's cloak. 'Draco…' Hermione began, uncertain. She'd dealt with him when he was angry, uncertain how to behave, and helped him when he had a million questions with answers that weren't in books. And he'd shouted at her and been angry before, when he was completely lost and scared and didn't know what he felt or how to behave except to lash out at people, and she understood that, but it still scared her.

'Tell me,' she said, trying to keep her voice firm. 'What happened… what's scaring you?'

'I'm not scared,' he denied, seemingly by reflex, 'and I'm not telling. You're a Gryffindor, you wouldn't understand.'

She paused. 'Have I ever not understood something before?' she asked. 'You can tell me. Anything. Remember… remember trust?'

He was silent again, head turned away from her, and the seven feet or so that lay between them seemed like miles.

'It wasn't anything important,' he began, uncertainly. 'They were attacking her, and she's too young to defend herself yet. And anything less wouldn't have stopped them, I had to do it…'

'Do what?' she prompted, when he fell silent again.

He sighed, seeming to give in, and opened his eyes. 'Do you know the _Incende Ipse_ curse?' he asked.

A thin, cold shiver, like someone running an ice cube up her spine, began in the small of Hermione's back and ran all the way up to her nape as she remembered reading those words, a year or more ago now, a few pages of writing in a book she'd read out of interest, extra revision. Draco's expression hovered between a neutral, blank mask and uncertainty. Fear.

She knew what had happened.

'You _didn't_…' she began, knowing that he had but unwilling to accept it. He looked away, briefly, then back towards her.

'It was the only thing I could have done,' he defended himself. 'Anything less and they'd have kept attacking her, it was the only thing…'

Hermione didn't reply, staring at the tabletop to avoid looking at him. It was funny. A year ago the idea of Draco using Dark Arts wouldn't have seemed so strange, so odd. Horrible, yes, but it would have at least fitted with her mental image of him. Now it didn't; now it was like trying to force the wrong key into a lock. Draco wasn't evil. But the Dark Arts… they _were_.

And he'd used them, so that made him evil, but he wasn't. She glanced up, very briefly because the expression on his face scared her, and she couldn't imagine someone who could look like that – so human, so desperate – using a Dark curse on anyone else. _Torture_.

His hands slammed down, a harsh thud, on the table beside her, and she looked up to see him on her left, leaning over the table. 'I told you you wouldn't understand,' he said, voice low and vehement. 'I told you you wouldn't and you didn't listen, and now you'll hate me…'

She grabbed hold of his forearms, stopping him from going into a rant. 'I don't hate you,' she said, her voice equally low. Now… now sit down, or something, and we can talk properly.'

She took a deep breath; he unwillingly slid into the seat beside her. Usually he relaxed, leaning back in his seat to the point where it almost tipped backwards or half-sprawling across the table, but today he sat with his back as straight as a ruler, as a wand, and his arms in his lap.

'Right,' she said, trying to pull herself together. 'Tell me exactly what happened.'

He sighed. 'I was talking to Ellen in the common room,' he began, his voice completely passionless, 'and we noticed that Blaise was glaring at her and people were moving away from us. I, of course, stayed where I was. Some third-years – presumably trying to gain favour with the higher circles – started planning an attack behind her When they attacked, I quickly deflected the spell with a Shield Charm, then warned them away from her. One of them tried to attack again, so I…' his voice broke off, and after a few seconds he shrugged helplessly and said, 'You know the rest.'

'You cursed him,' Hermione filled in, shuddering. 'I thought you couldn't do Dark Arts in Hogwarts.'

'Most of them alarm the teachers,' he said, shrugging, 'but there's a few which don't, and some areas near the Slytherin common rooms don't have the charms on. The… the one I used… that one gets round the wards.'

Hermione nodded. 'I... I don't hate you, if you were afraid of that,' she said. 'And I guess I do understand…' She paused, her fingers lacing an unlacing in her lap. 'What do you want me to say?' she asked eventually.

'I want… I need… I don't _know_,' Draco said eventually. 'I don't understand any of this! It's all…' He bit his lip, shaking his head; he didn't look towards her but what she could see of his face was painful. 'I don't know, I don't have the right words for any of it and it's all…' He slumped forward, hiding his head in his arms; she could no longer see his face, only his silvery hair. Hermione had a sudden urge to put her hand on his back, comfortingly, but repressed it – she didn't know how he'd react.

'I don't know what you're feeling,' she said eventually, speaking quickly and timidly, as if afraid that saying the wrong thing would make him explode. What would he be feeling? Guilt, probably, and shame, and horror, and fear… But that was based on what she'd feel, in that situation, and while some of it was probably the same she couldn't know what was different. 'But I… I want to help…'

Draco was silent for a while, and she sat and watched and worried. When he did speak, his voice was oddly tight, almost hoarse, and a little afraid. 'There's something wrong with my eyes. They hurt.'

Her first feeling was one of relief – eyes were something she could sort out, if not herself then with a trip to Madam Pomfrey – but then she immediately felt guilty for feeling that. 'Is there something in one of them? Let me see,' she asked.

Almost unwillingly, he lifted his head. 'They feel… heavy,' he said, his voice still quiet. 'Like something's squeezing them. And…'

Hermione frowned, looking at them closely. They were slightly red, but apart from that… 'I can't see anything,' she said. 'Do you want to go to Madam Pomfrey?'

He shook his head, and as he did so a tiny drop of water formed in the corner of his eye, began to glide silently down his cheek, and in that moment she realised what was happening.

'You're _crying_,' she said, half in wonder, half in puzzlement. 'There's nothing wrong with your eyes at all…'

He looked away. 'It feels like there is,' he said, softly.

'Haven't you ever…?' she asked, resisting the urge to touch one of the tear tracks, or to laugh in amazement. He shook his head. 'Not even as a baby?'

'Fallens don't cry,' he said, rather shakily. 'How… how do you stop?'

'You… you don't, you just have to wait until it stops on your own… I have a handkerchief,' she said suddenly, realising that she ought to do something but not having a clue what. And you were meant to give people handkerchiefs, weren't you? She ducked below the table, searching through her schoolbag.

When she emerged, he was slumped forward over the table, head in his arms. He wasn't making any noise and his shoulders were still, for the most part, but tense. Occasionally they twitched, as if they were trying to heave and shake and all the other things shoulders were meant to do when they cried but he was stopping them.

Hermione bit her lip, not knowing what to do. Comforting another girl was easy, but when it came to boys you couldn't just put your arms round them and say it'd be alright, that didn't work.

'Draco?' she asked timidly, and placed her hand on his shoulder. 'I… It's okay. It's okay. It'll be alright.' Even though she knew that didn't work. 'It's okay…'

Draco had used Dark Arts, and now Draco was crying for the first time; both of those things were huge and impossible and confusing, and Hermione didn't quite know where she stood, except that Draco was upset and she needed to help him.

'Hush. It's okay…'

* * *

'It's not like her to be late,' Ron said for the sixth time, checking his watch and glaring at the door as though it were the sole culprit for Hermione's lateness. 'She's always on time. She'd rather… I don't know… have her foot chopped off than be late normally…'

'Well, there are five minutes till the DA actually starts,' Ginny replied, frowning. 'She's probably on her way…'

'Have you ever known her be this late before?' Ron asked. 'She's usually here _first_…'

Ginny sighed. 'Stop being so paranoid,' she told her brother firmly. 'Hermione's late; she's _allowed_ to be late once or twice in her life. She probably just… got absorbed in a book, or forgot there was a meeting today…'

'Hermione doesn't forget things like that,' Harry interjected absently. 'She'll have remembered, she probably just got held up…'

Ron shook his head. 'Held up by what? She knows she ought to be here…'

'Perhaps there was a book-slide in the library and she got buried,' Ginny suggested wickedly. 'Or she's helping dig the survivors out.' Ron threw her a dark glare, distinctly unimpressed; Ginny returned a cheeky grin. 'If you're that worried, Ron, maybe one of us should go and find her. I will, if you want,'

'That'd only leave two of us to teach,' Harry pointed out.

'It's not far to the Library,' Ginny pointed out. 'And I know where she usually sits; I'll be there and back in ten minutes. Besides, you two aren't scared of a bunch of twelve-year-olds, surely?'

'It's hard enough keeping them from running riot when there's _four_ of us here,' Ron said, leaning against the wall. 'But we should really find out where Hermione is… go on, Ginny, but hurry.'

'I'll be quick,' she replied. 'Maybe I'll find out who this mysterious D is that she keeps studying with…'

Harry shook his head. 'She said she was going to study alone before,' he pointed out. 'Go on, get going. We need you back as quickly as you can make it.'

'If she's not there, come straight back, don't run around looking for her,' Ron added as Ginny hurried off towards the door. He turned to Harry. 'What do you think could be holding her up?'

Harry shrugged. 'One of the teachers, perhaps?'

'Possibly…' Ron checked his watch again. 'It's almost time to start, you know. Ginny had better get back fast…'

The door opened at that point and their eyes swivelled towards it, even though it was far too soon for Ginny to be back. It admitted only a group of Slytherins – there weren't many, but some did come. They appeared to be clustered around one of the third-years, who was speaking loudly, a dirty sneer on his face.

'Of course, Michael can't go to Snape about it,' he was saying. 'He'd end up having to explain what he was doing in the first place, and if Snape asked for that blood-traitor's side of the story…' He sighed over-dramatically. 'We've been trying to persuade him to go to Snape – they could probably get him expelled if they tried hard enough – but Michael doesn't want the detentions for trying to attack that _thing_.'

Harry frowned, nodding in the direction of the Slytherins. 'What's going on there?' he asked.

'Where is the Mudblood, anyway? She usually comes here,' one of the second-years asked. Beside Harry, Ron sucked in a deep breath.

'He said…!'

Harry, knowing his friend well, grabbed onto his arm. 'Leave it,' he warned him quietly. 'They're Slytherins, they've probably…'

'Who cares?' the first boy asked, shrugging. 'Anywhere that's not near me is good…'

Ron was trying to get his arm out of Harry's grip. 'Let me go!' he hissed.

'A Mudblood in Slytherin… Ha!' the boy continued. 'We should have killed her the moment she was Sorted… filthy thing. The only good Mudblood is a dead Mudblood.'

There was laughter from the Slytherins; no one apart from Ron and Harry seemed to be paying attention to them. 'Let me go!' Ron demanded again, trying to struggle inconspicuously. 'I'm not gong to stand here and let them talk like that…'

Harry was torn between stopping Ron from hurting anyone and letting him wreak havoc, because at this point he was almost ready to start hexing the Slytherins too. He settled for a compromise. 'Go and tell them off,' he said. 'But no violence, okay?'

Ron glared. 'Okay, no violence. Got it.'

'I mean it,' Harry said again, and let him go. Instantly Ron was storming across the Room of Requirement, giving the Slytherins a look that really ought to be able to kill.

'Excuse me,' Ron said to the third-year, quite coldly, 'would you care to repeat that?'

Harry sighed, leaning back against the wall with one eye on Ron. _The only good Mudblood is a dead Mudblood_… A year ago, only Malfoy would have said that in public. And now…

* * *

Entering a library was always an odd experience, or so Ginny thought: there was the sudden break between the noise of the corridors, where there was always the noise of footsteps or some chattering group to keep you company, and the eerie silence of the library. Of course, it was only silent around the entrance; as you got further in and further away from Madam Pince's watchful eye, people started whispering and giggling and chattering again.

Still, the entrance was always unnervingly silent; and silence which came from a lot of people making no noise was always subtly but eerily different from that which happened when there was no one to make noise at all. It was awkward and eerie, as though someone had died.

Shrugging off such morbid thoughts, Ginny headed towards Hermione's accustomed place. She always sat at one particular table, which was half hidden by bookshelves and had a cosy feeling of being enclosed, so she didn't have to worry about trying to find her.

Ron might have been acting paranoid, but it wasn't without good reason; it wasn't like Hermione to forget the DA. Of course, Ginny chose to take a more practical view of the event, rather than worrying that the worst had happened. Most likely she'd just got absorbed in something, or had started talking to someone – the mysterious D, perhaps – and forgotten to stop.

Hermione's usual corner was silent as she approached. That didn't mean anything, of course, if Hermione were reading she'd be silent…

Then she heard it, a quiet whisper; if the library around her hadn't been so quiet she never would have noticed it. 'It's okay…' It was Hermione's voice.

Ginny frowned, paused a moment. Who was Hermione speaking to? Cautiously, she crept closer, peered round the corner of a bookcase.

The scene in front of her looked like one of Harry's Muggle photographs, static and unmoving, but there didn't need to be motion for Ginny to let out a gasp of amazement, quickly clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle it. They hadn't heard.

Hermione was biting her lip, looking worried and pale, with her hand on the back of a boy. The boy was sitting with his head in his arms, obviously crying, and Ginny couldn't see his face – but she'd have known that peculiar shade of silver-blond hair anywhere.

It was Draco Malfoy.

* * *

**A/N: **And that's all for this week, but of course there's Macbeth on Monday and another Fallen next Friday to look forward to!

And, as you should know by now, it's time to review. Hit the button, or I'll send a plague of trick-or-treaters to your house to ring your doorbell incessantly and demand all your chocolate…

Review!


	37. Seeking Knowledge

**Chapter 36: Seeking Knowledge**

**Disclaimer:** There once was a fic and it had a little disc(laimer) / Intended to make amends. / When it was good, it said 'J.K.Rowling should Own Harry and all of his friends.

**Thanks for 1389 reviews goes to: **SycoCallie, Vincitveritas, Beboots, Cyhiraeth, Go10, willowfairy,Plaidly Lush, Nathonea, PhAnToM-ChiK, samhaincat, BestDeception, misticrystal faerie, Janie Granger, kessi1011, Naira, citcat299, WWJD4mE2LiVe (x2), the hope conspiracy, Sparkling Cherries, Red Witch1, Stoneage Woman, Calixte Ammonian, blueberry girl, draconas, Munching Munchkin Management, ToOtHpIcK, Madam Midnight, Pink Tribe Chick, Jaid Ziaen, Genevieve Jones, Kiyoko, Haley, The Evil Midget, Medea Callous, Slytheravengryffinpuff, brettley, Sickness in Salvation, OBXglider, Flexi lexi, DHR SHiPPER, Rebecca15, Sixx, sever13, Zyzychyn, haylez90 (x2), Magellen-chan, Nikki, victoria, FalconWing, Alyssium, ablakevh (x2), gracie5412, Marie Adele, heavengurl899 (x2), MistressMaliceMalfoy, Melia, PsYcHoJo, Stacey, blabbity blah, Alexi Lupin, Kawaii Ryu,

**A/N:** I really wanted to call this chapter, 'Draco: Not Only Has He The Emotional Range Of A Teaspoon, But That Of A Full Set Of Cutlery, One Of The Ones With Different Forks For Every Course.' But space did not permit it, sadly.

As for problems with chapters not showing up – in the first day after an update it can sometimes say the chapter isn't there. There isn't much you can do about that, unfortunately. Going to the chapter before and clicking the next arrow, if it's there, might work. As for chapters before the most recent being inaccessible, I really don't know why. If anyone has that, reporting it to is probably the best course of action.

Quite a few people have asked where I got the idea for half-Fallens from. The answer is I have absolutely no idea. The concept of half-Fallens was the first thing that struck me, and the cornerstone for the plot – other elements such as the spy and prejudice were added during the plotting process. If I recall correctly, one of my friends said that Draco looked 'angelic', I got struck with the idea, 'What if he really _was_ angelic?' and it all spread out from there. I have no idea where any of the half-Fallen concepts came from apart from that. Even the Genesis quote was found about a week after I'd finalised what they were like, and I hastily added t in and pretended it had been there all along. I blame the muses.

Oh, and also since someone asked: OOC means Out Of Character, OC means Original Character. Oh, and since someone mentioned it; Harry Potter in Latin absolutely rocks.

With that, onot the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_All men by nature desire knowledge._

**_Aristotle, 384BCE – 322BCE, Metaphysics._**

* * *

'Check.'

Harry stared rather stupidly at the board for a moment, then groaned. 'I can't _believe_ I didn't see that.' Ron merely settled back in his chair with a wide grin, while Harry desperately tried to find a way of getting himself out of trouble.

Ginny glanced up from her book. 'Won again, Ron?' she asked.

'Not if I can help it,' Harry muttered, frowning at the chess game. 'How do you always manage to win?'

Ron grinned and shrugged. 'I don't always win,' he pointed out. 'You won a game last week…'

'Yes, and you won three the week before,' Harry pointed out, before carefully moving his king a square to the left into relative safety. The figure stared in horror at a particularly vicious pawn nearby and cowered on its square.

Ron made another move, and the endgame continued in a nervous silence. Ginny resisted the urge to whisper a suggestion for a particularly good move into Harry's ear – it wouldn't be fair – and simply attempted to will the idea into his head instead. She was quite surprised when, grinning suddenly, he made the one she'd thought of.

The portrait hole opened at that moment and Ginny glanced briefly towards it, her eyes flicking back almost instantly when she realised who she'd seen entering: Hermione.

Smiling widely, she got to her feet and hurried towards her. 'Hermione!' she called out. 'You're back.'

'Hey,' Harry called out, and Ron gave a small wave, still engrossed in the game. Hermione smiled back, then bit her lip.

'Er, about the DA…'

'Oh, yes, I found your note,' Ginny said firmly Hermione looked confused.

'Note? I…'

'The note you left at the table where you usually sit in the library,' Ginny said. 'The one about how one of the first years was being bullied, and you had to comfort her and then go see teachers about it, so that's why you missed the DA meeting. I found it when I went to go and look for you after you didn't turn up.'

She'd told that story to Harry and Ron earlier, when she'd returned from the library to the DA meeting. They'd needed some kind of acceptable story to stop them worrying, and she couldn't tell them about what she'd seen, not until she knew what had happened.

Ginny didn't approve of Malfoy, and she hadn't approved of Hermione comforting him, but she also knew that Hermione was sensible, and if she was spending time in the company of Malfoy, she had to have a reason. She'd decided to wait until she could hear Hermione's side of the story before she decided whether or not to tell Harry and Ron

'Er…' Hermione began, her expression having gone from completely confused to rather pale. She swallowed. 'Thanks, Ginny.'

Thanks for not telling the boys? Ginny wondered. At any rate, she smiled back. 'Oh, and before I forget…' she began. 'I was wondering if you'd come to the library with me later to look up something on _dragons_. Charlie mentioned it in one of his letters, and I can't find it myself.'

Hermione looked quite nervous at that. 'Okay,' she said.

Grinning, Ron made a move; Harry groaned before falling to a more dedicated perusal of the board. Ron looked up. 'What happened with that first year, anyway?' he asked.

'Er… she's fine now, it's all sorted,' Hermione replied, and then with a momentary stroke of genius, replied, 'I can't tell you any details, I promised her I'd keep it all confidential… apart from the teachers, of course. Sorry about missing the meeting.'

'Don't worry about it,' Ron replied. 'It went fine. Feel like playing a game against me after I've beaten Harry?'

Hermione glanced at Ginny, who gave a barely perceptible nod. Permission. 'Sure.'

* * *

The good thing about winter was that it grew dark early, and under the cover of night no one could see Draco flying; or if they did, they took him for an overlarge owl or a trick of the light and forgot it. The bad side, of course, was that it was freezing cold; his breath turned white as he swooped and swerved in the dark sky, shivering when he stopped, hovering.

Flying helped, in a way: while you were rushing through the wintry air, breathless and cold, you didn't think about emotions, somehow. Perhaps the coldness and the speed crowded it out, so there wasn't any room for anything but the sharp clarity of the night, the crisp-edged moon, the silhouette of the Forbidden Forest on his left. Perhaps it was simply distracting.

Perhaps it was too cold for his feelings to work – they did say _cold-hearted_ and _warm-hearted_, after all; perhaps when it was cold emotions stopped working so well, and that was where the expressions came from. It would explain why the Slytherins were so heartless, down in their chilly dungeons, and the Gryffindors were caring and compassionate up in their fire lit tower with its gentle crimsons and glowing golds. It was a nice theory, and he should ask Hermione about it later.

Perhaps it was just the feathers brushing lightly across his back and arms as they beat; he could feel the gentle feeling of mindless contentment radiating from them where they touched. It was useful, he supposed, but not really pleasant. It was almost like wearing a blindfold, or earmuffs, and dulling the senses. Emotions must be like that to normal humans, he realised; as indispensable, reliable and simple as sight, as hearing.

After an hour or so of flying, with a few pauses now and then to catch his breath, he decided to fly up to his favourite place – the roof of the Gryffindor Tower, as it happened – and rest for a while. He could feel the blood almost burning under his skin as it pulsed, trying to get oxygen to tired muscles and warmth to freezing skin.

From the top of the tower, there was a truly magnificent view. To the south, the lake rippled in the moonlight, with sparks of silver on top of deep and secretive black; then, in the far distance, he could just make out Hogsmeade. To the east was the forbidding mass of trees that made up the Forbidden Forest, rustling in the wind and managing to look impossibly dark, as though someone had torn out a forest-sized piece of the grounds and left a hole into absolute nothingness. To the west was the more familiar and reassuring shape of the Quidditch pitch, the hoops and stands rising proudly into the sky, and to the north hills rose up, a gentle rise and fall in the distance.

The Forest made him feel uncomfortable; so he sat on the west side of the tower and looked out at the pitch, with the lake and hills on either side if he turned his head. The tower's roof also blocked him from the wind, keeping him slightly warmer than he would have been otherwise. With a sigh, he shifted back to human form and sat on the roof, leaning back against the cold slates and closing his eyes.

Slytherins weren't meant to cry.

Of course, that only held true for him if he was a Slytherin; but was he, any more? They didn't treat him like one. He hovered at the edges of their group, and he knew full well that if it wasn't for his ability with the Dark Arts – he shivered – they'd treat him exactly as they did Ellen; to be hexed and hated. They hated him anyway, of course, but they didn't dare show it beyond ignoring his presence.

And Hermione hadn't told him not to cry, as such, though she had seemed worried. That could mean anything. Was she worried because the crying showed that something was wrong with Draco himself, and that made her worried for him, or was it because the act of crying itself was wrong? He hadn't been taught any of this: all he'd learnt was that crying showed weakness and should be responded to with derision.

Hermione hadn't mocked him. She'd been… kind. Caring. He smiled a little as he remembered that; it hadn't felt like he'd thought it would. If you needed comforting, that meant you had a weakness, and comforting showed you were too weak to deal with it on your own. He'd imagined it would feel rather unpleasant. It hadn't, though, even though he'd felt terrible about the crying itself. The comforting had felt… nice.

He was having to learn everything about emotions from scratch, he thought, and there was simply far too much to learn. How many emotions were there? He doubted that anyone had counted, and then thee were the times when two emotions mingled to create a new one – even such opposites as hate and love would do it – and then there were three at once, and four, and more. The total number must be almost infinite. How on earth was he meant to learn what they all were?

Humans managed it, though if Hermione was anything to go by, they didn't even think about emotions and what each one was called and meant. As if they could feel a new emotion and know what it was simply by instinct. It was a talent he envied. Perhaps after years of living with emotions it became automatic? Would he ever be able to feel an emotion and know it instinctively, without needing to think about it and analyse it and ask someone else for advice?

The simple answer was that he had no idea. Hermione wouldn't know either; he was the only living half-Fallen that had turned human, and there wasn't likely to be much information about it. There might be some in his mother's archives, he supposed.

Draco sighed, clambering to his feet. He was tired of thinking; it only left him more confused than he had been when he started, and if he kept thinking his mind would move onto the topic of using Dark Arts, and then… He didn't know; but he felt that he didn't want to think about that. Another one he couldn't name or understand.

Shifting back to his winged form, he leapt lightly off the tower and flew away.

* * *

'Checkmate,' Hermione said, smiling as she moved her bishop. Ron scrutinised the board, making doubly and triply sure that it was truly a checkmate, and then gave her a grin.

'You're getting better,' he remarked as he started to pack the pieces away. 'I'll have to stop playing against you; can't risk losing my place as the chess champion of Gryffindor, can I?'

Hermione laughed. 'Don't be silly, Ron, you win most of the time…'

'Did Hermione win?' Ginny asked, appearing quite suddenly from where she'd been sitting quietly by the fire reading. 'Well done!'

'Thanks,' Hermione replied, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Over the course of the chess match she'd completely forgotten that Ginny had seen her with Draco – while he was crying, no less – and needed an explanation.

She'd been avoiding telling her friends about Draco, mainly because she knew they wouldn't approve. He'd been their enemy for years, after all, and saying 'He's changed now,' would be utterly meaningless to them unless she explained in depth the exact nature of that change. Which would mean telling them all about Fallens and half-Fallens, and she wasn't willing to do that. She wouldn't betray Draco's secrets.

Which, of course, meant that she'd have to try and make the 'He's changed now,' excuse sound like something halfway decent. The fact that he'd been at the Order should count for something…

Sighing, she glanced at Ginny – she was standing nearby, looking perfectly polite and civil, and you cold only have seen the tension and disapproval in her face if you looked very hard at the set of her jaw, the look in her eyes. It was probably best to get it over with. 'Ginny,' she said, getting to her feet, 'do you want to go to the library now? Look up that thing on dragons you wanted to find?'

Ginny looked quite surprised; she'd probably been expecting to have to pester Hermione to discuss it. 'Sure,' she said, and headed for the portrait hole. Hermione gave Ron and Harry a parting smile and hurried after her, feeling suddenly quite nervous. What on earth was she going to say?

When she stepped into the corridor, she saw Ginny heading off to the right. 'Ginny?' she called then hurried after her. 'Listen, I can explain…'

She turned round. 'Yes, but not _here_. Anyone could hear us here, and I assume you want to keep this quiet, considering that you didn't even tell your best friends?'

Hermione bit her lip, wincing. 'Sorry. I did want to tell you, but…'

Ginny cut her off with an impatient hand gesture. 'Not here. And you do realise that if you don't have a decent explanation I'll be telling Ron and Harry about this anyway, don't you?'

Hermione nodded dumbly – there wasn't much else she could do – and Ginny headed off down the corridor again. Second left, first right, then she pulled aside a tapestry and opened a small door inside. A pleasant little room was revealed, with a pair of sofas and a coffee table, and a wide window with a view over the lake.

'Dean and I used to come in here,' Ginny said nostalgically, then sat down on one of the sofas, all softness gone. 'Right. Explain.'

Hermione took a seat opposite her, took a deep breath, and paused. 'I'm not sure where to begin…'

'The beginning, perhaps?'

Hermione flinched. 'Ginny, don't…'

The redhead leaned back against the deep brown leather of the sofa, folding her arms. 'Don't what?'

'Be so… so _caustic_,' Hermione replied, frowning. 'It's not…'

'Caustic?' Ginny asked, looking faintly amused. 'Only you would say caustic. Most of us would just say mean.' She bit her lip then, looking rather less cruel and more uncertain. 'I'd have thought you've be used to it, with Malfoy.'

Hermione shook her head. 'He's never mean, unless he's… upset or something's going wrong, or something like that.' _Or someone threatens a defenceless first-year and he uses Dark Arts on them_. She wisely didn't say that; Ginny would likely have a fit. Knowing what a cliché it was, how unbelievable it would be, she said, 'he's… he's changed.'

Ginny scoffed. 'He's always been a scumbag, he always will be one,' she remarked. 'Why the change? How?'

'I can't tell you why,' Hermione said slowly.

'Then why should I believe it happened?' Ginny asked. 'He could easily just be pretending. Why happened? Why did he change?'

'I can't tell you,' Hermione repeated. 'Just like… I wouldn't tell him about Harry being depressed over Sirius, or about…' She took a breath. 'About what happened to you in your first year. What happened to him is… is just as big, and I'm not going to tell his secrets.'

Ginny frowned. 'It was his father who caused that, you know,' she said cruelly. 'Putting Riddle's diary in my cauldron…'

'Draco isn't his father…'

'He's always acted like it!' Ginny replied fiercely. 'He's always hated you and Muggleborns and supported Voldemort and generally acted like a spoilt Death Eater brat. What's changed?'

Hermione took a deep breath. 'A lot, and I can't tell you. I would if I could, believe me, but…' She sighed. 'Can't you just trust me? You know I don't make stupid decisions, or do things without a real reason. And something huge did happen to him, and it more than explains why he's changed…'

'But you can't tell me about it.' Ginny said dryly.

'Because it's his secret and it's his decision who knows.' Hermione replied simply. 'I found out by accident, and… and it was big enough for me to try and befriend him. Look, doesn't the fact that Dumbledore let him stay at the Order show that something big must have happened to him?'

Ginny thought about this. 'I suppose,' she replied. 'But it doesn't explain why he's become 'nice' all of a sudden.'

Hermione sighed. 'I know, but trust me, there is a reason. And it is a good one.'

'All right,' Ginny said, then gave her a scrutinising look. 'I still don't think he's all that nice, though. He was horrible at the Order.'

'I know,' Hermione said, pausing and glancing out of the window over the dark grounds. 'Things were… very difficult for him, I guess. He was surrounded by people who hated him, and then with what had happened…' She sighed. 'He was being defensive, I think. We haven't really talked about that much…'

Ginny raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'Defensive?'

There was a long pause. 'Yes,' Hermione said firmly. 'And I… I think he's a decent person. He defended that Muggleborn Slytherin in first year when the others tried to pick on her. More than once.' She didn't mention that he'd used Dark Arts to do it.

Ginny have her a long and very calculating look. 'Alright. I don't like this, but I guess you aren't stupid. If for some reason you think Malfoy's worth talking to, I won't stop you. But,' she fixed a firm stare on Hermione, 'I want you to tell Harry and Ron.'

'Ron will do mad,' Hermione pointed out, 'and Harry will be suspicious. You know what your brother's like, Ginny, he'll murder Draco…'

'Perhaps, but as it stands, you're lying to your two best friends who you've known for years, or hiding the truth from them at the very best,' Ginny said firmly. 'If you're off chatting to their enemy in the library they deserve to know. I'll give you a week to tell them, and if you don't do it in that time I'll tell them myself.'

Hermione bit her lip. 'I suppose,' she said. 'On the condition that you're there when I tell them, and you help me stop Ron from storming off to murder him. And help me to explain.'

'Deal,' Ginny replied, giving her a smile. 'I assume you aren't going to tell me why he was crying?' Hermione shook her head. 'Alright. What on _earth_ do you two have in common to talk about?'

* * *

_Dear Narcissa,_

_It feels very odd to be writing to you, especially since we've never spoken, so I hope you don't think me too rude. My name's Hermione Granger, and since I don't know exactly what Draco's said about me, I'd better summarise. I found out about what he is – as in a half-Fallen – completely by accident; we were both staying at the Order in summer and I went to fetch him for lunch, happened to walk on him with his wings out, and… well, you can imagine._

_When I found out what all that entailed I… well, I wanted to help, I guess. I don't know why. I suppose I felt sympathetic, and I was the only one there who knew - well, apart from Dumbledore, and possibly a few people in the Order. So I was the only one who could help, really. And the very idea of being emotionless both scared me and amazed me; it was such an impossible idea. Like something out of a book, but true, so I suppose it was something like a moth to a candle flame…_

_I think I've caught the habit of over-analysing emotions from Draco. Basically, I wanted to help, and eventually I managed to get him to let me. I don't know what we are now; I'd say friends, but I don't think he understand what that is yet. We certainly act like friends, so I suppose it's the best word, as the English language lacks a noun for 'the relationship between a half-Fallen who has just become human and the human who is helping him; what would probably be friendship if he knew what it was.'_

_He is getting better though; he understands quite a lot now. We made a list a week or two ago; most of the basic ones, like fear and happiness and things like that, and a few of the harder ones. And he's getting better all the time. I think he's getting used to it as well; at the beginning when we were at the Order he was miserable. Now… he smiles more, I think. And he acts happier, just like any normal person would, most of the time._

_He's nothing like he used to be. Which is a good thing, I suppose._

_And that's kind of what I'm writing about – Draco said there are diaries and notes and things made by the husbands and wives of Fallens, and I was wondering if there's anything about Fallens who turn human that could help. It's a bit of a big brief, but I don't know much – just the story of where Fallens came from and what they're like. So anything, really, would be useful._

_Thank you in advance for anything you can tell me. I hope to hear from you soon._

_-Hermione Granger._

* * *

**A/N: **Since I seem to be spending a lot of the beginning A/Ns answering reviewers' questions, I thought I'd do it a little more formally for once. Ask me anything you like in your review (because you're all going to review, aren't you?) and next week I'll pick five questions to answer. You can ask about the story, about me, about the definition of the word 'syzygy'… Questions that would give away too much about the plot (like 'Who's the spy?' which I get a lot) will be discarded, as will anything very personal or rude (there's not much in either category I wouldn't answer) and five will be chosen. Questions that are interesting, witty, amusing or asked multiple times get priority.

What are you waiting for? Review!


	38. Justification

**Chapter 37: Justification**

**Disclaimer:** There's a story about a mountain, a thousand times bigger than Everest, which stands at the end of the universe, and once every thousand years a little bird flies to the mountain and sharpens its beak on it, one-two, and flies away again. Now, by the time that entire mountain has worn to dust, I _still won't own Harry Potter_.

**Thanks for 1459 reviews goes to: **haylez90, Go10, SilverMoonset, Tiffany&Co, CRS, Rebecca15, Sparkling Cherries, Beauty Full, khuu-khuu, samhaincat, Janie Granger, Marie Adele, kafkaesque, Slytheravengryffinpuff, D/HR SHiPPER, dolfingirl101, Lucifer's Garden, Medea Callous, chocolatevampire, RedWitch1, SycoCallie, Hakuri, langocska, Plaidly Lush, WWJD4mE2LiVe, ToOtHpIcK, Madam Midnight, Genevieve Jones, Kunochi, Willowfairy, Munching Munchkin Management, Bella (x2), flipflop5 (x2), Calixte Ammonian, ablakevh, Angel-Wings-Forever, MistressMaliceMalfoy, Sever13 (x2), Sixx, JoeBob1379, draconas, Crown V-Lee, Alexi Lupin, Jaid Ziaen, WierdSistaz, Amy, citcat299, narmolanya, MiRoRmInX, Harlequin the Freak, threepastmidnight09, wackomaraco87, Keindra, Night, heavengurl899, emzgurl, Queen-Nikki-luvs-Angel, SnapeSeraphin, PinkTribeChick, NotreDamegirlie, Fynmara, Silberner Sand, tweetie, Stoneage Woman, Siaram, Coffee Shopper, bonessasan.

**A/N:** I'm incredibly sorry about the long wait between updates! Though I do have reason, as my mum knocked her front teeth backwards and is now getting false ones, my dad dislocated his shoulder, and I spent all last weekend rushing round doing things. I dislike having too many social events in a weekend. One half-day event is acceptable, any more and I have no time for anything.

Anyway, I've been agonising for ages over which questions to answer. After deleting all the ones that had already been answered or would give away too much plot, prioritising the ones which were asked multiple times, and then debating over the rest, here are the five questions with their answers:

**What are you going to study/do as a profession?** Well, I must admit, in my ideal world I would be an author, and I do want – when I'm older, wiser and really feel confident about writing – to write books. But of course, being practical, it's not guaranteed to put food on the table. Plus, when I do nothing but write and read all day, I tend to go a little… odd. Odder than usual, that is. So I would like to get a job and write in my spare time. I'm currently studying English Language, English Literature, Psychology and Biology, and I'd quite like to do English at university with the aim of being an English teacher, perhaps?

**If you were Hermione, would you have acted the same as she does in the story?** This was an incredibly tricky one to answer! I do have quite a few similarities with Hermione – down to the initials HG and the bushy brown hair – and I think I would have done some things the same, along the lines of wanting to help him when I found out. I probably wouldn't have gone about it the same way, though – I'd have been more likely to tell Harry/Ron/Ginny, explain it to them and ask them to be kind to Draco, talk to him, etc. until he started talking to us of his own free will.

**How long until Hermione gets to see/stroke Draco's wings?** Ah, yes, the wings. They are very pretty, I agree. As for how long until Hermione gets to see/touch them properly… in terms of the story, it'll be around the start of their Xmas hols. Which translates in real time to Xmas/New Year, approximately.

**Will there be a sequel/Will we be seeing more of Narcissa than the occasional letter?** I put these together because the answer is, basically, the same. There won't be a sequel. That's definite. There will probably be, however, some short spin-off stories later on – some of which will involve Narcissa, among other characters who, due to plot constraints, don't get the attention they really deserve.

**To Draco: Assuming you had access to a Starbucks, and assuming your father wouldn't kill you for associating with Muggles, what would your favourite Starbucks beverage/pastry be?** A little explanation first: with so many different styles of Draco to write with in so many different fics, I've ended up developing a kind of meta-Draco who is referred to by my friends as 'The little voice in Cy's head', 'DLV (Draco's Little Voice)' or 'Inner-D'. This is the one to whom I put the question, and after much surfing of the Starbucks website, he has gone for the 'Tazo' Chai Tea Latte with Vanilla Almond Biscotte.

With that incredibly long AN over, onto the story. Enjoy!

* * *

_Exitus acta probat. _

_(the result justifies the deed)_

**_Ovid (43 BCE - 17 BCE)_**

* * *

'I'm going to the library.'

Hermione said this without looking at Ginny; her gaze appeared to be focused on an interesting table a short distance away, and a slight tinge came to her cheeks as she lifted her beg onto her shoulder. 'I shouldn't be more than an hour or so.'

'Bookworm,' Ron said with a grin. Hermione smiled back, a short and slightly tense smile, and glanced at Ginny, who avoided her gaze.

It was obvious from the way she was behaving that she was going to meet Malfoy. Ginny didn't let herself look up until she heard the portrait hole close firmly, and didn't join in Harry and Ron's conversation when it had done.

She didn't like this, none of it; it reminded her of when she'd been younger, about five or six, and the twins' latest game was _would-you-rather_ questions. 'Would you rather sleep with your head in a cowpat or eat one?' or 'Would you rather be killed by a Dementor or a Lethifold?' The other boys had thought it was fun, even if they got tired of it after a while, but Ginny had hated it. She'd ended up throwing a tantrum and accidentally sealing their lips shut, and Mum – when she'd undone the magic – had forbidden them from ever asking Ginny one of those questions again.

Later, Ginny had thought back on them and worked out why she'd hated them so much. She had no problem with choosing between two would-you-rather things if the choice was obvious. If one thing was good and one thing bad, like 'Chocolate or a cowpat?' she was fine. Even if both things were bad, such as 'Spinach or a cowpat?' she was fine. She just chose the lesser of two evils.

It was when the two choices were _the same_ in her preferences, as Fred and George's so often were and as the current situation with Malfoy was, that she became uncomfortable.

Ginny hated Malfoy. She'd hated him before she'd even met him, from Ron's stories and letters and her parents' dark mutterings about the Malfoy family, and in five years at school together he'd done nothing to change that impression. He'd insulted her family, he'd fought her brother, he'd sneered and jeered and cheated at Quidditch, he'd made _Potter Stinks_ badges and composed _Weasley is our King_, he'd called Hermione Mudblood and, of course, his father had slipped her the diary which had almost killed her. There were very few people she hated more than Draco Malfoy.

And of course, to find that Hermione was not only friends with him but _comforting_ him… well, she felt as though Harry had just gone out for a friendly game of Quidditch with Voldemort.

Malfoy had been at the Order that summer, of course, which showed that something odd had happened to him at the least, for him to seek sanctuary with his enemies. If he'd been nice to them there – or even simply avoided them and been silent – she might be able to understand Hermione's friendship with him better. But he didn't seem to have changed at all.

And yes, she was worried for Hermione's safety. He was a Death Eater's son; there was no telling what plans he might have, what he might do to her once he gained her trust…

But there lay the other side of it. Ginny trusted Hermione's judgement, and if she thought there was something worthwhile in Malfoy, something worth being friends with… Ginny couldn't really argue. Hermione had the right to be friends with whomever she wanted, and if that included Draco Malfoy, then what right did Ginny have to say no?

Her first impulse had been to go straight to Ron and Harry. With them, she could determine if Hermione was in danger, spy on her meetings with Malfoy, perhaps, find out what was going on. With all three of them knowing, they could watch more closely for danger signs. Ginny glanced at the clock, realised Hermione would be in the library with Malfoy at this very moment, and tried to swallow a rising bubble of panic. What was Malfoy _doing_?

Hermione's judgement. Ginny had to trust in Hermione's judgement, that if she thought Malfoy was safe to be friends with then he must be so. It was harder than it seemed, especially when she'd believed all her life that a Malfoy could never be trusted, would have Muggleborns and half-bloods and Weasleys dead in a second if they could.

She glanced at Ron and Harry, longing to tell them. Together the three of them could do something, make sure Hermione was okay. Plus it really wasn't right of Hermione to lie to them; Ginny felt guilty just for being part of the secret, knowing she was lying – or at least, keeping important information - from her brother and Harry. They would want to know, it was disloyal not to tell them, but it would be disloyal to Hermione if she did tell them.

Would you rather betray one friend or hide a secret from another two? Would you rather let your friend be alone with a dangerous Malfoy who could hurt her and kill her, or spy on her immorally without her knowledge? Would you rather trust your friend's judgement, which you feel is completely wrong, or throw a fit and insist she do what you think best?

That was why she hated _would-you-rather_ questions.

She hated her answer too. The Ultimatum, as she thought of it. Tell Harry and Ron yourself or I will. It was blackmail, and horrible, and she felt oddly unclean for using it. But something had to be done, and at least this way she didn't have to hide the secret from Harry and Ron, not for too long. At least this way when they found out they could help her keep an eye out for danger, decide what to do next.

'We'll have to set up a bed for her there,' Ron was saying. 'Transfigure books into pillows and stuff.'

Harry laughed. 'And get the house elves to bring her food, only we won't be able to tell her it's house elves, of course…'

Ron shook his head. 'Nah, you can't eat in the library. We could probably get her out for meals…'

Nodding slowly, Harry asked, 'I wonder what she's doing in there? She hasn't spent this much time in the library since before the OWLs. She's in there everyday, practically…'

Ginny bit her lip and looked away. Hermione had a week to tell them.

* * *

Hermione had read in _Hogwarts; A History_ that the library, which couldn't use fires for warmth for the obvious reason that it contained large numbers of extremely flammable books, was instead heated by some incredibly complex spells. These had been invented by Rowena herself, who had masterminded the design, building and layout of the library, and she and Helga had cast them over all areas of the library, weaving them into the very stones of the walls. They still worked today, over a millennium later.

Knowing all this, however, didn't keep Hermione from feeling cold as she walked through the library to her usual corner.

Draco was waiting there for her, early as usual, his head carefully lying on the desk in the crook of a precisely folded arm, his eyes lightly closed. He looked, if she had to sum him up in one word, tired. Two words would be _elegantly tired_.

'Draco?' she asked, sliding into her usual seat next to him. 'You awake?'

'Unfortunately, yes,' he replied, slowly opening his eyes and shifting his head so that he could see her better. From this angle, she noticed very faint blue patches under his eyes, as though someone had taken a blue-inked quill and coloured in that area, and when Draco had tried to wash it off he'd been unable to get that last faded, pale trace of blue off his skin.

It was obvious he'd slept badly. 'You know, if you want to go have an early night, you can,' she said. 'You look exhausted.'

'Thanks,' he muttered, closing his eyes again for a brief second. 'I won't be able to sleep anyway, so there's not much point. I've never been able to sleep in the daytime.'

Hermione glanced at the sliver of window she could just see from amongst the bookcases; it was dark outside, as it had been for the past two hours, but she didn't say anything. If he didn't want to go, she couldn't and wouldn't make him, simple as that.

'You could go to Madam Pomfrey for a Dreamless Sleep potion, if you can't sleep tonight either,' she decided to say eventually, after a few seconds' pause. Draco shrugged, which looked rather odd in the position he was sitting in.

'I'll think about it,' he said.

He didn't seem in the mood for conversation, obviously, so Hermione stayed quiet and looked at her fingernails, which were either uncomfortably long or freshly broken right back to the skin. She ran her thumbs over their irregular edges before glancing back to Draco, whose eyes were once again shut.

She had to tell him, at some point, about Ginny's ultimatum. It would affect him; couldn't help but affect him, as Ron and Harry certainly wouldn't be best pleased about it. He deserved forewarning at least, and an explanation of what had happened. And to know that Ginny had seen him crying.

He looked exhausted, but she only had a week in which to tell Harry and Ron, and she was intending to simply choose the first decent opportunity – after all, decent opportunities were likely to be fairly sparse. There were only a very limited number of situations in which you could say something like that, and it would still be very hard to keep them from thinking she was in some kind of danger.

Of course, there were a very limited number of situations in which she could tell Draco about Ginny's ultimatum, but she didn't have the luxury of a large amount of time in which to do it. She had to tell him as soon as possible; she only had a week to tell Ron and Harry, and she didn't want to tell them without first warning Draco. Which meant that here and now, with Draco still shaken from the recent events, was the best chance she had.

She didn't want to tell him. It felt almost cruel to add this difficulty on top of his use of the Dark arts and his crying, both of which had clearly already shaken him up far too much. But if she didn't tell him now, when would she tell him? Later in the week, and have no chance to delicately choose the time she'd tell Ron and Harry, and end up making things worse with them? Or perhaps not at all, and then it would be a kind of betrayal.

Now. It might feel cruel, but it was better than not telling him at all, than making Ron and Harry angry with him because she'd told them at a bad time.

'I…' she began, then paused. He opened his eyes, perfectly placid and weary, and looked at her. She bit her lip. 'I have some bad news.'

He frowned, raising his head. 'What?'

'You remember I missed the DA meeting yesterday?' she began. He nodded briefly. 'Well… Ginny came to look for me when I didn't turn up.'

He caught on quickly. 'She saw us?' he asked, eyes widening, then, 'Did she see…?'

Hermione bit her lip, not wanting to tell him this part, and nodded. He looked away, resting his head in his arm again but facing away this time, though she saw a hint of red in his cheek.

'She hasn't told anyone about it,' Hermione was quick to say. 'And I haven't told her anything about… about you being half-Fallen. Or about why you were…'

'Crying.' He finished, voice distant. 'What did you tell her?'

'I said you'd changed but I couldn't tell her why, and she was okay with it, after a while.' Hermione said. 'She didn't ask about why you… why you were…' She paused, wishing she could see more of Draco's face. 'Then she asked what we talked about, and I said schoolwork and things like that – safe topics, of course. Then she asked how we'd started being friends anyway, and I made up something about Arithmancy. That was pretty much it.'

'Has she told anyone else?' Draco asked after a short pause.

Hermione frowned. 'Not… not _yet_.'

He turned his face towards her then, jaw set firmly and eyes slightly narrowed. 'What do you mean, not yet?'

'She… she thinks I should tell Harry and Ron,' Hermione replied, adding quickly, 'It is like lying to them, and breaking their trust, and I have been feeling guilty about it for a bit. And I understand why she wants me to tell them…'

'Are you going to?' Draco asked sharply.

She sighed, shrugging slightly and finding herself unable to meet his gaze. 'I don't have much choice, do I? If I don't tell them, she will, and that'll just make worse. Harry and Ron will be less angry if I confess than if Ginny tells them…'

He straightened, slowly, giving her an incredulous look. 'And you're just going to _do what she says_?'

'What else can I do? I can't prevent her telling them, and I guess they do have a right…' Hermione began, but Draco interrupted.

'Of course you can prevent her telling,' he said, the tips of his cheeks turning red. 'Blackmail her.'

'Draco…' Hermione began, but stopped due to the complete impossibility of communicating exactly what was wrong with that. 'You don't blackmail your friends.'

'She's blackmailing you, isn't she?' Draco pointed out, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. 'If you don't tell them, I'll reveal your secret. By all definitions, that is _blackmail_.'

'Well, yes, but…' Hermione paused, unsure how to explain the difference and unsure what the difference even was. There was a difference, she knew, but… She looked at him, then, reclining in his chair with his head tossed back and jaw set firm, something of his old, Fallen self in the way he held himself which made her look away quickly.

'What she's threatening to reveal is… well, it's a different kind of secret. It's not something embarrassing or damaging to me, and I…' She took a breath. 'It's actually something I'd prefer them to know. I don't…'

'Well I'd prefer them not to know,' Draco cut in sharply, almost violently. 'I don't want _Potter_ and the _Weasleys_ knowing about… about _anything_,' he finished, with a brisk and vehement gesture which indicated himself, Hermione, and the general library.

'Draco…' Hermione began. 'They're my friends.'

'They're _my_ enemies.'

Hermione took a deep breath. 'I was your enemy not so long ago, Draco,' she told him firmly, 'and… and I'm your friend, and I'm also their friend, and I really would like it if I could tell them about this. Forget Ginny, I wanted to tell them anyway. Ginny's just the motivation.'

'I don't want them to know,' Draco repeated. 'Hermione, they hate me. The last thing they want to hear is that I'm…' He frowned, briefly; he couldn't say friend and there was no other word. 'That I'm meeting with you. They won't like it.'

Hermione shifted slightly in her seat, looking up at him, frowning. 'They won't do anything. They won't like it, but they're my friends, and as long as I'm not in any danger – which I'm not - they won't…'

'They'll _think_ you are,' he interjected darkly. 'They'll stop you talking to me.'

Was that the root of it? 'If they do, I'll hex them both until they can't tell their knees from their elbows,' Hermione told him, and elicited a small smile. 'I won't let them stop me talking to you. That's a promise. And… and I would feel a lot better if you let me tell them, I feel guilty about lying to them. And I won't tell them anything about you being half-Fallen. And… please?'

He frowned. 'I still don't like Ginny blackmailing you.'

'I think she's justified,' Hermione replied, watching him carefully. Then, feeling rather odd since she'd have to tell them whether he consented or not, she asked, 'May I?'

He closed his eyes, looking suddenly weary, and after a few moments spoke in what was almost a whisper. 'Fine.'

Hermione grinned, relief spilling through her as though someone had poured a bottle of it over her head. 'Thanks. That… that really…'

His eyes flickered open. 'Though if I ever get that Weasley girl on her own, you can rest assured I'll have a few things to say to her about blackmail,' he said harshly, eyes with a slightly malevolent spark to them. Hermione opened her mouth to say _Don't_, but decided not to push her luck.

'Thanks,' she repeated.

His eyes narrowed, and he shifted uncomfortably. 'Can we change the subject now?'

'Sure,' Hermione replied, quickly trying to think of a new topic. 'Oh, remember how I asked if I could write to your mother? I've written a letter…' She ducked below the table to rummage in her bag, allowing her to escape the tense atmosphere above. Emerging, she saw Draco looking thoughtful.

'Probably the best way to arrange this,' he began, 'is for you to pretend to be a friend of Delphine's – that's Pansy's mother, I'm using her as a false identity. Call yourself Cloris; there's a witch by that name in one of the families that's worthy enough for my mother to be writing to her, but not so high up that my father would be likely to run into her and find out that she's not actually writing to her.'

Hermione nodded. 'What should I write about? In the false letter?'

'Books?' Draco suggested. 'My mother loves books; it'd be an acceptable common interest for Delphine to introduce you both because of it. Plus, you probably know a lot about it.'

Hermione nodded. 'I'll write a cover letter now,' she said, putting the real letter down on the table. She wondered if Draco would want to read it; he had every right to, of course, but… 'Is there anything else I should add in the letter?'

'Try to sound aristocratic. Try to flatter her a bit, perhaps? Then Lucius will read it as a lower-status Pureblood trying to get into a higher-status circle, and probably dismiss it.'

Hermione nodded, pulling out a piece of parchment, ink and quill. 'I'll try,' she said, and began her letter with a formal Dear Narcissa.

A short while later – after she'd rambled for a while on some of her favourite books in as aristocratic a tone as she could manage, with a few subtle flatteries added in, she signed it with her false name and wordlessly handed it to Draco for inspection. He read it through, nodded, and placed it on top of her real letter.

He hadn't read the real letter.

_'Cela usque ad animi motus_,' Draco muttered, touching the parchment with his wand, and the two sheets merged together. 'I'll send it tonight,' he said, rolled up the parchment and dropped it into his bag.

Hermione paused, biting her lip. 'Do you want to read it?' she asked.

'Yes, but I'm not going to,' he replied.

'You can if you want, I don't mind…' Hermione began, but he interrupted.

'No, I won't. It's impolite to read other people's letters, after all,' he said with a small, wistful smile.

If she hadn't already known, Hermione would have wondered what kind of system would condone her blackmailing Ginny but prevent Draco reading a letter he'd been given permission to read.

* * *

**A/N: **As both my parents have had accidents in the past few weeks, and these kinds of things always come in Threes, and I'm an only child, it would seem that Fate has something serious planed for me next. Considering that with these events I'm practically giving Fate a lap-dance, I have no qualms about tempting her further by posing the question: What part of my anatomy do you think I'll injure, and how? Note that only hospital/dentist/etc-visit-worthy accidents are counted. Answers in reviews! 


	39. Hogsmeade

**Chapter 38: Hogsmeade**

**Disclaimer:** I'm sure that after 38 disclaimers, it will come as a great surprise to you to learn that I don't own Harry Potter.

**Thanks for 1509 reviews goes to: **draconas, starr taleyn, Lyannie, Nathonea, Go10, kunochi, haylez90, Marie Adele, Madam Midnight, SilverMoonset, threepastmidnight09, PsYcHoJo, Kurama Luver 518092, Sever13, Tiffany&co, heavengurl899, SycoCallie, FalconWing, Stoneage Woman, Medea Callous, Dragonfaerie1186, RedWitch1, Poojies, langocska, Keindra, Janie Granger, brettley, willowfairy, ablakevh, Jaid Zaien, Kiyoko, Rebecca15, Haley, Genevieve Jones, Alaranth-88, dizzydragon, Munching Munchkin Management, ToOtHpIcK, Alexi Lupin, flipflop5, Slytheravengryffinpuff, Dixi, Plaidly Lush, jules37, samhaincat, citcat299, danihell, CanalVorfeed1, MyStOrIeS, Lucifer's Garden, JoeBob1379.

**A/N:** Wow. Quite simply, wow. The 1500 review mark ahs been broken! Thanks so, so much to everyone who's reviewed so far and will do so in the future, you've made all the writing absolutely worth it.

And yes, this chapter is late, I'm sorry! has bugs and stopped any uploads going through until now – I'm very, very sorry if any of you were worried, especially after last week's injury-predictions! Let's hope that the computer difficulties were the third and final accident, shall we? On that topic: mum's just got her new teeth, and is grinning widely at everyone she sees, and dad's arm is fine.

Questions: **1.** If I could live anywhere in the world… hmm. Sweden's quite nice, or Canada. **2.** Don't ask me how much longer it's going to be, I don't want to think about it. Long. Let's leave it at that. **3.** MUN is really fun if you do your research and aren't utterly terrified by public speaking. **4.** My first ever story was written when I was about six, and it was about the Queen of the Fairies who was pregnant and had to move house with her entourage of insects because her castle would be too small for the kids. They ended up sleeping in a field, and the field was magical and the grass turned into sleeping bags when they lay down. So they built a castle there and the Queen had twin baby boys, and they all lived happily ever after.

With that, onto the next chapter, which has nothing to do with faeries, queens, insects or baby twins, but does contain the 1812 Overture. Enjoy!

* * *

_When in doubt, tell the truth._

**_Mark Twain, 1835-1910._**

* * *

Hermione returned to the common room that night fully intending to tell Harry and Ron about Draco at the first opportunity, but a Hogsmeade weekend had just been announced, and the two of them seemed so happy chatting about it – the sweets they wanted from Honeydukes, the new tricks at Zonko's – that somehow she didn't have the heart to spoil it.

The next evening she couldn't tell them either, because Harry had Occlumency. Before he returned, she'd been sitting in the common room with Ron and Ginny, all three of them quiet and withdrawn, and she supposed she could have told Ron then, but somehow it didn't seem right to leave only Harry ignorant of her friendship with Draco; it felt wrong not to tell the two boys together. So she waited.

Harry came back impossibly pale and silent, as usual, and it took all of Ginny's ability to get people chattering to stop the evening drifting into uncomfortable silence, to keep the three others smiling at least. Hermione could have stopped the silence with her revelation, but with Harry suffering the after-effects of his memories and Ron and Ginny stressed she didn't think it was a good idea.

The night after that was a DA meeting, and she spent the time before that with Draco, and there simply wasn't time to tell them. And the next night there never seemed to be a decent way to mention it, and the next…

It was quite possible, Hermione thought as she tied her scarf round her neck on the morning of the Hogsmeade day, that she was procrastinating.

Tomorrow was the end of her week's grace, the day when Ginny would tell the boys if Hermione hadn't done so already. What had happened to her determination to tell them at the earliest opportunity? It wouldn't have been so hard to call the friendly chatter about Hogsmeade to a halt on that first night, would it?

It wasn't like Hermione to procrastinate, but she clearly had been doing, finding excuses not to tell them. She knew they wouldn't be happy, knew they'd be annoyed at best and furious at worst, but she'd wanted to tell them, hadn't she? Even before Ginny had made her ultimatum, she'd felt guilty that she was lying to her friends. If she wanted it, why was it so hard to do?

Because it wasn't going to be pleasant. Not at all.

Hermione sighed, turning to the reflection in the dormitory's mirror and looking it firmly in the eye. _I'll tell them today. When we get back from Hogsmeade._

She tried to make it a promise, but her reflection looked nervous.

* * *

Draco stared out the window of the jarring, rocking carriage and tried to ignore the three rather intimidated Hufflepuff fourth years he'd been forced to travel with.

In previous years, he'd have been travelling with Crabbe and Goyle, and probably Blaise. Occasionally Pansy, or one of the other Slytherins, but never alone in a carriage with Hufflepuffs. Of course, in previous years he wouldn't have minded being with Hufflepuffs, because he wouldn't have been _able_ to mind.

'You can talk, you know, I'm not going to hex your heads off,' he remarked, not moving his eyes from the window; one of the Hufflepuffs coughed, but apart from that there was no conversation. Draco rolled his eyes – if there was one thing that stayed constant, it was silly timid Hufflepuffs – and returned his full attention to the window.

Hermione was running out of time to tell Potter and Weasley. She'd said yesterday that she'd probably tell them tonight, after the trip, which he was faintly grateful for – the longer he went without being maimed or seriously injured the better. The younger Weasley – Ginny, the female one – had kept glancing at him, frowning, which had grown steadily more annoying as time went on. He supposed he should, in some odd way, approve of it – after all, she was looking out for Hermione, which was what a good friend should do, and as something like a friend of Hermione's himself he should approve of that. It was only the part where it applied to him that he minded.

He could appreciate her motives: she didn't want Hermione in danger and she perceived him as dangerous. Not unfairly, either, considering his previous actions and – with a twinge of something like nausea – the way he'd used Dark Arts on that boy to defend Ellen. She was justified in thinking that, from a logical point of view, and that led directly to concern, the demand that she tell Potter and Weasley, and worried glanced across the Great Hall.

Logic said all this. Emotion wailed like a child and asked how she could even _think_ he'd hurt Hermione? He wouldn't, not ever; the thought of it made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

The carriage began to pull to a halt, and Draco had the door open before it had fully stopped, so eager was he to get out of that rather tense atmosphere. He jumped down from the doorway, the Hufflepuffs' relieved chatter drifting out of the door behind him.

He nodded to the Thestrals – their presence made him feel strangely on edge, so he felt it best to be polite – and headed for Hogsmeade village, mentally running over the list of what he needed to buy.

Most of the others seemed to think Hogsmeade trips were fun. He wasn't very good at emotion still, but it didn't feel much like fun had ever felt before.

It felt like he was completely alone, which was ridiculous, because there were people all around him swarming into the village, Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, excited third-years, experienced seventh-years, and everything in between. If he was suddenly struck blind and deaf and had to rely on emotion to tell the size of the crowd, he'd have said he was on some desert island, or Antarctica, somewhere completely uninhabited and lost in vast expanses of ocean.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

* * *

'We can _compromise_, you know,' Ron said firmly, folding his arms. 'Me and Harry will go to Zonko's, and you and Hermione can stay here and look at books. Okay?'

Ginny considered this, thumb playing thoughtfully with the corner of _Herbology: from Seed to Flower_. 'Okay, but I want to go to Zonko's later too. If you take longer than we do, can we go back later? It's no fun going on your own.'

'Sure,' Harry replied. 'Meet you outside… by the door of Zonko's?'

'Fine by me,' Hermione said from the floor, where she was busily comparing two Potions books. 'Ginny, do you study the _Venia_ potions?'

'Er, I think we do a few of them…' she replied, squatting on the floor beside her as the faint jingle of the door behind them indicated that the boys had left. 'Which ones, specifically?'

They spent the next fifteen minutes finding good textbooks for Potions and Transfiguration. Ginny had asked her that morning if she'd mind helping her find some – most of the decent, interesting Library Books had impossibly long waiting lists to be borrowed, and while the set textbooks were excellent as usual, Ginny had explained that she wanted something more interesting. 'The Potions textbook sounds like it was written centuries ago,' she confided glumly. 'It has sentences that would send linguists into _tears_.'

'This one looks best,' Hermione said, holding up a book called _Transfiguration Explained_. 'And it's not too expensive.'

Ginny grinned. 'Thanks, Hermione, it's really-'

She was cut off by the bell over the shot door giving a sudden jangle. Hermione glanced towards the entrance to see an unmistakeable blond figure – Draco – hurry inside, quickly ducking among the bookshelves.

'What was that about?' Ginny asked beside her, frowning, her voice a tone lower than usual.

'I don't know,' Hermione replied. 'Listen, Ginny…'

'You want to go ask?' she guessed. 'I thought as much. Here, give me your money, I might as well go pay for our books while you talk to him.'

'You don't mind?' Hermione asked.

Ginny paused before answering. 'Well, yes,' she admitted. 'I don't like him, and I certainly don't trust him, but you have the right to talk to whom you want. Besides,' she added with a mischievous grin as she took Hermione's books, 'I want to know what happened as much as you do.'

The redheaded girl slipped away in the direction of the counter, leaving Hermione feeling quite amazed and more than a little grateful towards her friend. She'd hated Draco herself, until a month or two ago, so she knew how Ginny must feel…

Still, there wasn't time to stand around feeling pleased; she wanted to know what had caused Draco to hurry inside so fast. She slipped round a corner of one of the bookshelves, footsteps muffled on the neutral carpet below, rounded a second corner and saw him.

He was browsing through the fiction section, and his eyes widened when he saw her. 'Hermione? Aren't you meant to be with…?'

'Ron and Harry are in Zonko's, and Ginny's paying for books,' Hermione explained. 'She knows I'm talking to you, by the way.'

'But Potter and Weasley still don't?' he asked, and Hermione shook her head. 'When are you telling them?'

'As soon as possible,' she said, shrugging and not meeting his gaze. 'And I know I've been saying that for a week, but…'

'It's either today or the younger Weasley tells them tomorrow,' Draco finished, sighing. 'So either way, time's almost up.'

He scrutinised the bookshelf in front of him, raising one pale finger to drift lightly across the rows of titles, and Hermione paused, biting her lip. He hadn't really complained about it since she'd first told him, but she could still tell he didn't like the idea. And yes, she could see why he didn't like it, but she could also see that if she kept it a secret and was discovered, Ron and Harry's reaction would be much worse than if she told them, honest and up-front, fairly soon. And it wasn't completely fair to hide it from them, either. And she didn't like hiding it.

It meant that Draco lost out in the short-term, but perhaps that was better than leaving it longer and having them all lose out when Ron and Harry found out she'd been keeping secrets from them. They'd be upset and worried over her now, but if at some point in the future they found her not only friends with Draco Malfoy but hiding it from them, and having done so for months upon months, and still keeping it hidden, they'd be not only upset and worried but furious too. And that'd ruin her friendship with them, and Ginny and the other Gryffindors would be caught in the middle, and they'd quite possibly try to take revenge on Draco too.

All things considered, the old adage held true: honesty was the best policy.

She didn't share these thoughts with Draco, but instead changed the topic. 'What are you doing here?'

'Doing? Looking at books,' he replied, pulling one book out of the shelves and scanning the blurb on the back.

'No, I meant… you ran in here quite quickly,' Hermione explained. 'I was wondering…?'

'If there was a particular reason, or if I was just overeager to get my hands on some reading material?' he asked, a half-smile curling one corner of his mouth, and she laughed. 'For a reason, as it happens.'

'What reason?'

He frowned, toying with the corner of the book he was holding. 'Delaney. Watching me.'

'Spying?' Hermione asked.

'I think so. He didn't take his eyes off me.' He looked up, frowning at some point near the ceiling. 'It felt rather… uncomfortable. Almost nervous.'

'Frightening,' Hermione suggested, to which he replied with a half-nod, 'Well, at least you know who the spy is. We can try to avoid him.'

'It still might not be him,' Draco said thoughtfully. 'It just appears to be him. We don't have any proof, and it's a bad idea for me to assume it's him and let my guard down.'

Hermione nodded. 'I suppose you're right,' she said, and then, feeling uncomfortable with the topic, nodded towards the book in his hand. 'Are you buying that?'

'What? No, it sounds awful,' he replied, sliding it back on the shelf, and surveying the rest thoughtfully. 'I think I quite like books.'

'Really?' Hermione asked, smiling. 'What kind do you like?'

Draco frowned for a moment before saying, 'I'm not sure. Anything with a good story, I suppose. And good characters. And a good style of writing.'

'Of any genre?' she asked, looking over she shelves. 'Let me think…'

They spent the next ten minutes with Hermione suggesting books, occasionally offering a 'That one's in the Library, if you'd rather borrow it,' or an 'I can land you that one.' Most of the ones she suggested he bought, saying that he preferred to have his own copies, which Hermione could understand. As a child, she'd always borrowed books from the local library – a pretty Victorian building with deep green ivy over the walls and leaded windows – she she'd always been frustrated when she wanted to re-read a book and not been able to.

Hermione had almost completely forgotten about Ginny and the others when she heard a familiar voice say, very quietly, 'Hermione?'

'Ginny?' she said, looking up. Her friend was standing at the end of the aisle, half-behind the bookcase, as though unwilling or uncertain about coming any closer. Ah yes. Draco.

She was slightly surprised to hear him speak from behind her. 'Good morning, Weasley,' he said, his tone perfectly neutral, glancing up for a moment from his books before turning back to them.

Ginny looked startled. 'Er. Good morning,' she replied, then turned her attention back to Hermione. 'Harry and Ron are here. They got bored of waiting for us outside,' she said. 'Assuming you'd rather tell themselves than let them find you choosing books with Malfoy, I told them you were somewhere in the Arithmancy section.'

'I'd better go, then,' she said, scrambling to her feet. 'Draco, are you okay with the books…?'

'I think I've got enough,' he replied. 'Thanks,' he added, with a genuine small smile to which she couldn't help smiling in response.

'See you around Hogsmeade,' she said, before hurrying off to find Ron and Harry. Behind her, Ginny and Draco glanced once at each other – both warily – before Ginny hurried away and Draco began to collect his purchases together.

* * *

The thing Ginny loved most about Honeydukes was the smell.

You walked in from outside, where the air was sharp and clean with the beginning of winter and smelt of frost, and the first thing you noticed was that the air was warm, soft and gently and - to Ginny – something like her mother's kitchen when she'd been baking cookies. It smelt of sweets, of sugar, of Pumpkin Pastries, Fizzing Whizbees and Chocolate Frogs. Delicious.

She was browsing among the high shelves, trying to choose between three different types of fudge. All wizarding fudge was white, and changed colour and flavour when you touched it to reflect your mood, fears, temperature… anything you could charm it to change to. At the holidays, they made fudge which changed to reflect how you felt towards the giver.

Ginny had narrowed her choice down to mood-fudge or – purely for the novelty - blood pressure-fudge, when she heard all-too-familiar voices from the next row.

'Do you know where they keep the Jelly Slugs in this abominable place, Hermione?' It was Malfoy's voice.

Frowning, Ginny tugged the packages of fudge off the shelves, trying to create a hole to see through, but the gap was too narrow.

'Draco? Harry and Ron are here, you know, we can't…'

'They're on the other side of the shop,' Draco replied. Ginny hurried to the end of the row, where a sold-out notice where the blood-flavoured lollipops usually were gave her a better gap to see through. Draco was standing beside Hermione, smiling a rather odd smile, while Hermione looked nervous. 'You don't think I'd come over if they were nearby, do you?'

Ron and Harry were on the other side of the shop, but that didn't stop them coming nearer. 'I suppose. Jelly Slugs are…' she moved out of Ginny's range of view. 'Here. I thought you didn't like them?'

'I don't,' was Draco's reply. 'Ellen gave me five Galleons and ordered me to buy her as many sweets as I could. That child has a rather alarming sweet tooth.'

Hermione laughed. 'Most kids do,' she said, and then she added something else, but Ginny didn't hear it because she could hear voices from behind instead.

'Wow, Harry, look at _these_…'

A few moments of chatter, and then the voices started getting closer. Ginny swivelled round nervously. If they saw Hermione and Malfoy… well, she wanted them to know about Hermione's rather odd friendship, but she didn't want them to find out like this.

'Ron? Harry?' she heard herself saying as the pair came into view at the end of her aisle. 'There you are, I was wondering where you were. Help me choose some fudge.'

There was silence from Hermione's aisle – presumably they'd heard. Ron and Harry, both with an armful of sweets, turned towards Ginny, only feet from making an unpleasant discovery.

'Sure,' Ron said. 'Hey, Ginny, did you see those new lollipops? They sing when you lick them, it's really fun…'

Hermione came scuttling into their aisle, looking faintly guilty at having been talking to Draco. 'Hey, you three,' she said. 'What lollipops?'

Ron started to ramble about them, but it was clear Hermione wasn't listening. Instead she glanced towards Ginny and mouthed, 'Thanks.'

Ginny nodded in reply.

* * *

'You have to tell them,' Ginny whispered as soon as they got outside. 'They nearly found you…'

'I know,' Hermione replied. They were walking a short way behind the two boys, who had bought some of the singing lollipops. Ron's was singing something which sounded slightly rude and kept making the boys laugh, while Harry's had decided that humming the 1812 Overture was somehow appropriate. 'If I tell them, I might get away with them just being worried; if they find out and I don't tell them they'll be furious with me for hiding it. And I've been hiding it long enough. It's just…'

'Hard?' Ginny suggested, and Hermione nodded. Ginny reached out and gave her arm a friendly squeeze. 'They'll both understand, once they get over the… surprise,' she said by way of reassurance.

'It's the surprise I'm worried about,' Hermione said grimly. 'There just never seems to be an opportunity to tell them.'

Ginny sighed. 'How about now?'

'Now?' Hermione repeated, looking up uncertainly. 'But it's the Hogsmeade trip, it'll spoil it…'

'Yes, and telling them before dinner will spoil the meal, and telling them this evening will spoil the night,' Ginny said sensibly. 'At the moment, they're in a good mood, they're happy… it's probably the best opportunity you're going to get.' She paused for a moment, her foot uncomfortably scraping along the pavement stone. 'You know, you don't have to tell them. Or you can take longer to tell them if you want. It's just…'

'No, it's okay. I ought to tell them,' Hermione said, and took a deep breath. 'Just… let me go and warn Draco? He'd probably want to know… Tell Ron and Harry I've gone to the toilet or something,' she said.

Ginny nodded. 'Okay. Hurry,' she called, as Hermione turned and headed off, alone, into the streets of Hogsmeade.

The difficulty was that she didn't know where Draco would be. It was only five minutes since they'd left Honeydukes, so he might still be there, but if he'd left then there was no chance of finding him…

Thankfully, just as she reached the door of the sweetshop he came out of it, bags over his arm, looking quite surprised to see her hurrying towards him. His eyes flickered round the street; no one from Hogwarts was there. Most of them were in the Three Broomsticks by now, or possibly Madame Puddifoot's, having a warm drink.

'Hermione?' he asked.

'Draco,' she said, coming to a stop and not entirely knowing how to phrase what she wanted to say. 'I… I'm going to tell them now.'

His face darkened, and then seemed rather worried. 'Oh,' he said. 'Thanks for telling me…'

'Draco…' she said, biting her lip. 'It's for the best. Really. If I don't tell them and they find out they'll be…' She searched for a word. 'Really, really angry. And I don't like…'

'Hermione,' he cut in patiently, 'I know. Just… go and get the accursed thing over with, will you? It's making me nervous.' He paused. 'Well, I think it's nervous…'

He gave her a half-smile, which she returned. 'Right,' she said. 'Do you… do you want to come?'

'And get decapitated?' Draco asked. 'Don't think so. I might find a safe corner to hide behind. See how they take it.' He paused again. 'Go on. Get it over with.'

'Alright,' she said, biting her lip. 'Draco… whatever they say, I won't stop being your friend. That's a promise. And… and thanks,' she said, before turning and hurrying away.

She was vaguely aware of him following her, no doubt in search of that safe corner, but she didn't pay it much mind. The very blood that pulsed – too fast – beneath her skin felt on edge, sharp and tense. It wasn't that frightening, surely? Ron and Harry were her friends.

And then they were standing a few feet away, laughing and joking with Ginny, and Ron turned towards her and said 'You took your time.'

'Yeah, I guess I did,' she replied, shuffling her feet and suddenly feeing terribly nervous, as though she was five years old and about to confess to the teacher that she'd forgotten her homework. 'Er… Ron, Harry…'

She glanced towards Ginny, a desperate plea, and the red haired girl smiled and stepped forwards. 'You remember Hermione got that note from The Mysterious D?'

'Yeah…' Harry said slowly, frowning. 'What about it?'

Ron snickered suddenly. 'Is it a boyfriend?'

'No,' Hermione said quickly. 'We're friends. That's all.'

'What's wrong?' Harry asked. 'You look as if a Dementor was behind you. Are you okay?'

'Yes…' Hermione said, took a deep breath, and suddenly all the nerves and the nausea vanished into something very much like relief. No more secrets. 'We're friends. And D… he's Draco. Draco Malfoy.'

* * *

**A/N: **I think it's compulsory to have a cliffhanger at points like these…

This week's question: how did you come up with your username? I'm quite certain that some of you, naming no names, came up with them deliberately to annoy the people who have to spell them out in ANs. It takes me ages to type up the reviewers' names, simply because they're so _impossible_ to spell.

And now, Review!


	40. Friendships Tested

**Chapter 39: Friendships Tested**

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter, as I'm sure you'll be amazed to hear, belongs to JKRowling. To clear up any confusion, I'm not JKR.

**Thanks for 1617 reviews goes to:** SilverMoonset,Jaid Ziaen,Alaranth-88, SycoCallie, sara, Tayz, amerie, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, RedWitch1, Keindra, Slytheravengryffinpuff, Night, ShadowSilverWolf, narmolanya, Raiast, Kiyoko, Sickness in Salvation, Zyzychyn, lynzdi, ablakevh, savvyfairy, luckdragon, Evil Scientist (x2), Daisy Miller, PinkTribeChick (x2), soulsaint06 (x2), Crystallized Snow, Munching Munchkin Management, Dixi, KawaiiRyu, Medea Callous, Plaidly Lush, flipflop5, Angel-Wings-Forever, NotreDamegirlie, PhAnToM-ChiK, Nelly (x3), Fuchs-chan, Magellen-chan, chiyoko, Lyannie, Sever13, lilyE78, Ansku, Qmaria, Hidden Relevance, Calixte Ammonian, FerretyGoodness, starr talenyn, Lady Mariel, Best Deception, D/HR SHIPPER, Periannath, Cyhiraeth Elemmiere, wackyone, heavengurl899, Haley, The Twisted Colours Awards, Alice in Wonderland, Pheonix, Fee'-Fairy, MiRoRmInX, Noubliz, tiffangel, Beloved-Stranger, dracosbabigurl, cl0udnin3, Indygodusk, vampireluv, Flexi Lexi.

**A/N:** I'm really sorry this is late! I'm still ill, but as long as I don't try to walk more than ten steps or do anything for more than half and hour I appear to be alright. Have even been in school, but it's the last week of term and we're doing absolutely nothing other than watching films and eating sweets - and I've not lost my appetite! So I'm okay. As we break up Thursday, I should be able to get a chapter out on Friday, which will be another Fallen as usual.

To answer my own question of last chapter: I was lying in bed one weekend morning, dozing merrily away, when the word 'cyropi' suddenly floated in front of my vision for no apparent reason. 'That's a nice word,' I thought to myself, and took it as my online alias. It's useful because it isn't an actual word in any language existent, so if I search for myself on google I get only things related to me.

Further questions: my favourite colours are: blue because it's my eye colour and I find it calming; silver because for some reason I associate it with stories and dreaming; black because it's rich and deep and beautiful and very symbolic. My bedroom is silver and blue, if you wanted to know. My favourite Harry Potter character is Draco, because his character is so _amazingly flexible_. One minute you can read/write something where he's oppressed by his father and desperately seeking a way out; the next he could be a vicious, heartless, murdering Death Eater; the next he could be little more than your basic school bully, or a cool, calm Slytherin playing both sides against each other to his own benefit, or even a half-Fallen struggling with emotion. Add to that the complexities of getting him together with the various people we like getting him together with… you see why I like him so much.

Oh, and the audition went… well, I have no idea how it went, really. It was one of those where it was impossible to know if you'd done well or not, so I'm just sitting and hoping. Don't think I got in, but it was really fun anyway! We find out tomorrow, so I'll be sure to inform you.

* * *

_The shifts of Fortune test the reliability of friends. _

_**Cicero (106 BC - 43 BC), De Amicitia**_

* * *

There was a moment of pure and utter silence.

Draco, carefully positioned around a corner well out of sight, felt his stomach twist nauseously at the silence and wondered if he was coming down with something. He dared to slip his head around the corner for a look at the scene: Hermione was frowning slightly, twisting her hands together and looking worried. Ginny was hovering behind her, her eyes flying between Hermione and the boys.

Potter and Weasley, frozen in time, mainly looked confused. A little surprised. Weasley still had his singing lollipop in his mouth, and it was singing, faint and shrill and completely inappropriate.

_'Four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness, and when the ball…'_

Weasley removed the lollipop, looking faintly puzzled. 'What? Malfoy?'

Hermione nodded slowly, and glanced towards Ginny for reassurance. 'Yes.'

'_The_ Malfoy?' Ron was persistent. '_Draco_ Malfoy? The one who got turned into a ferret?'

Hermione nodded. 'And I know you probably don't like it,' she continued, very quickly, 'but remember, Dumbledore let him stay at the Order, so we know he's not dangerous, and he really has…'

'Are you sure he isn't dangerous?' Potter asked, biting his lip for a second and stepping towards her, holding out an arm as if in some attempt to communicate, and then dropping it, unsure of himself. 'I mean, I'm not… I don't mind,' he said, looking as though the words were difficult to say, but Draco felt something rise in his chest at hearing them. 'It's just I don't want you to get hurt.'

'I've been friends with him since summer,' Hermione admitted after a moment. 'And he hasn't done anything dangerous, or suspicious, or… or anything like that, and I've been alone with him loads of times…'

'He could have done anything!' Ron cut in, apparently over the shock and now alarmed. Draco shrank a little further behind his wall.

'Yes, but the point is,' Hermione said, pushing her hair back behind one ear, 'he didn't. And he knew I was going to tell you, and if he was planning anything he would have tried to stop me, but he was okay with it. If a little worried that you'd try to kill him,' she finished, half-smiling as though it was meant to be a half-joke, and her eyes flicked quickly to the place where Draco was hidden.

'We won't kill anyone,' Potter told her, and then shivered a little as a particularly cold breeze blue past. Ginny frowned at him, raised her eyebrow in wordless question, but Potter merely nodded.

'Unless he kills you,' Weasley added, 'because then he's fair game. Not that I think he will, or anything,' he added quickly. Draco shifted uncomfortably, though he didn't know whether it was at the idea of Potter and Weasley trying to kill him or at the idea of himself killing Hermione.

Hermione shook her head firmly. 'He wouldn't,' she said. 'He… He has changed. He's nothing like he used to be, and I… I trust him.' Even in the middle of the nerves and fear, that statement made Draco smile a little.

Potter and Weasley shared a glance. 'Alright, I guess…' Potter said, his mouth twisting slightly. 'Just, if anything does happen, tell us.'

Hermione nodded. 'I will,' she said firmly. A slow smile began to creep up her face, and must the same thing was happening, as a feeling, in Draco's stomach. 'So you… you don't mind? You aren't going to… to get mad?'

'I'm not sure I exactly _don't mind_…' Weasley began, before Potter cut him off.

'But it's your choice,' he said firmly. 'I guess…' with a glance at Weasley, 'we do mind a bit, but…' He shrugged, hiving Hermione a worried smile. 'Just be careful, okay?'

She nodded vigorously, grinning. 'I will,' she said, and then in a flash of brunette hair hugged first Weasley and then Potter, which left them looking almost as startled as they'd been after she'd told them about Draco. 'Thanks,' she said, beaming, 'I was so worried you'd be angry or something…'

'Nah,' Weasley told her, 'It's okay. We're worried, and I don't think…'

'But it's okay with us,' Potter quickly cut in. 'Come on, let's head off the Three Broomsticks, shall we? It's freezing out here.'

The group headed off, Ginny grinning and chatting merrily with Hermione while the boys – quieter than before and frowning slightly – followed. Weasley started sucking his lollipop again. _'And when the ball was over, there were four and twenty less!'_

When they were well out of sight, Draco slipped out from his hiding place and stood in the middle of the street, watching his breath turn to mist in the cold air around him, trying to analyse feelings. Relief, perhaps, a warmish mass like being able to breathe again after almost drowning. The nerves were still there, diminished now to a pins-and-needles prickling at the base of his stomach. Potter and Weasley had acted as though they didn't mind, but it was obvious that they did. Not enough to be violent, or forbid Hermione from seeing him, but enough that they might do something.

It was another thing to be watchful for.

* * *

'I don't like it,' was the first thing Ron said to Harry, quite emphatically, when the portrait hole closed behind Hermione. She was on her way to the library, and though she hadn't said it, they knew she was meeting Malfoy. Knew that she must have been, behind their back, for weeks; how many times had she told them she was going to the library since the beginning of term? Some would have been genuine, of course, but others…

That still stung.

'Of course not,' Harry said, shifting into a more comfortable position. His head was on the arm of one of the fat, squashy armchairs that littered the common room, lying on his back with knees bent and pointing at the ceiling, feet resting on the opposite arm. 'He's Malfoy. I don't like it either.'

Ron paused, frowning at the carpet. 'You don't think he's… he's _done_ something to her, do you?' he asked. 'It's the kind of thing…'

'I don't know,' Harry said, attempting to shrug. 'He could have done, but I don't think…' He paused again, frowning. 'He's not done anything to us lately, have you noticed?' he asked. 'He hasn't picked fights with us, or insulted us, or… well, I don't think he's spoken to me at all, really.' For a moment he remembered the fight they'd had back at the Order, ages ago, but he didn't mention it to Ron. Since they'd come back to school, Malfoy had done nothing at all.

'So you think he's changed?' Ron asked bluntly, frowning.

Harry paused before replying. 'I think he _might_ have,' he said. 'He hasn't done anything to us at all. Dumbledore seems to think he's okay, or he wouldn't have let him stay at the Order. And we still don't know why he was at the Order, and he must have had a really good reason for going there…'

'And Hermione seems to like him,' Ron added, frowning thoughtfully. 'And she wouldn't like him if she didn't see something there, something…' He paused. '_Likeable_.'

There was a short silence while they considered this prospect, before Ron spoke again. 'You don't think he could be trying to trick us?' he asked.

'Into what?' asked Harry. 'I suppose if he got us to trust him…'

'Or just Hermione to trust him. He could persuade her to, I don't know, go somewhere with him and then take her to some dungeon and hold her hostage. He could turn her over to Voldemort!' Ron concluded, in a moment of utter horrified inspiration.

Harry was more sceptical. 'I don't know. The only reason Voldemort would take Hermione hostage would be…' he took a breath. 'Would be to get at me. And it'd just be easier for him to have Malfoy get me to trust him and then drag me off somewhere. And Voldemort wouldn't have Malfoy do it. He'd choose someone else. Someone I don't really know well, not someone I already hate.'

'I guess,' Ron said, not willing to let go of his theory so easily. 'But Malfoy could still be tricking us, or something. Trying to trap us. Hermione could be in danger.'

'She could be, but then, it could be perfectly innocent,' Harry replied, staring thoughtfully at the fire. 'Malfoy could really have changed, and be nice… well, reasonably nice… and Hermione could have made friends with him.'

Ron stared glumly at a threadbare patch on his sofa. 'Both sound as unlikely as the other, don't they?' he remarked.

'What sounds as unlikely as what?' came a new voice, and both boys looked up to see Ginny, face flushed from hurrying up flights of stairs from the kitchens, one arm full of Butterbeer and the other full of Chocolate Frogs. Ron had declared that one bottle of Butterbeer wasn't enough to cope with the news, and Harry, remembering Professor Lupin and the cure for Dementor exposure, had asked for some chocolate too. Ginny had volunteered to get it.

'Malfoy being nice and Malfoy trying to kidnap Hermione for Voldemort,' Ron explained, taking a bottle from Ginny's arm. Ginny passed one to Harry, and dumped the remaining bottles and chocolate unceremoniously on a nearby table before curling up in the space next to Harry on the sofa. She was frowning.

'He isn't evil,' Ginny said, quite clearly and decisively, looking from Ron to Harry in turn. 'I think… I'm fairly certain he's actually changed.'

'What makes you say that?' Ron asked, reaching for some chocolate.

Ginny paused again before answering. 'I've known for about a week,' she finally admitted. 'Since that DA meeting when she didn't turn up, remember, and I said she'd left a note saying she had to go because of some first year being bullied…'

'You mean…?' asked Harry, guessing what she was going to say. Ginny nodded.

'I saw her with Malfoy,' Ginny said quite simply. 'Just… just _talking_, but they didn't see me. I confronted Hermione about it later, she said they were friends… I asked her to tell you. I didn't… it wasn't fair for you not to know,' she finished, raising her head high and looking almost defiant, as though she expected them to disagree.

'I think it was better she told us,' Ron mulled. 'Better than finding out accidentally later. It already… I am a bit annoyed with her for not telling us, for going behind our backs. Almost as bad as the fact that it's Malfoy,' he finished thoughtfully.

'She was really worried that you'd be angry with her,' Ginny said firmly, then spread her hands, questioning. 'Wouldn't you have been afraid what the rest of us thought? If it'd been you that was friends with him instead of Hermione?'

Harry nodded, and Ron muttered, 'I'd have been more worried I was going mad,' in the general direction of his Butterbeer.

'But how do we know if he's dangerous or not?' Harry asked. 'Short of pinning him down and forcing Veritaserum down him, I don't see…'

'I think he's really changed,' Ginny said firmly. 'Dumbledore trusted that enough to let him stay at the Order, and I think if Dumbledore can trust him, so can we.'

'Dumbledore _can_ be wrong though,' Harry said firmly. 'Or tricked, or just… misjudge the situation. We can't _know_ whether Malfoy's a danger or not…'

Ron was frowning. 'You really think he's okay?' he asked, and Ginny nodded firmly.

'I've not seen him much. Just with Hermione when she was meant to be at the DA, and a few times she kept meeting him in Hogsmeade.' She ignored the boys' raised eyebrows and continued. 'He didn't act like… like the Malfoy I knew. He acted different, just… just normal. Like anyone else. Not sneering at anyone, not being mean, not calling people a… calling people names.' She shrugged. 'Since we came back to school, he hasn't done _anything_ which suggests he's got some evil plan up his sleeve. And he's not a good enough actor to keep that kind of act up this long.

It was Ron who said, 'You're right,' quite simply, and took a swig of his Butterbeer. 'If you think he's okay, and Hermione thinks so and Dumbledore thinks so, and there isn't any evidence against it…' He shrugged again.

'So we think Hermione's not in any danger?' Harry asked; both Ron and Ginny nodded. 'Okay. But – just in case, you understand – keep an eye on him. On Hermione, too. Just in case something odd happens.' He bit into his chocolate thoughtfully. 'I guess I'm a bit paranoid, but…' He was thinking of Sirius.

Ginny nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. 'Don't worry. We won't let anything happen to her. Promise.'

* * *

'Have they said anything else?' was the first thing Draco asked, tensely, as Hermione sat down. He bushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. 'I heard what happened in the street when you told them, but nothing after you left. I couldn't have followed without being seen.'

'They didn't talk about it,' Hermione replied simply. 'And obviously I didn't try bringing the subject up. I was just glad it was over and done with.' She leant back into her chair, closing her eyes for a brief second. 'I'm just hoping all three of them will ignore the whole topic now, and that'll be an end to it.'

Draco shifted in his seat, leaning forwards to rest his head on the table, looking almost over his shoulder back at Hermione. 'Do you think they will?' he asked.

'I guess so,' she replied after a moment's pause. 'I don't think they like it…'

'Well, they wouldn't, would they? They _hate_ me,' Draco interrupted, his tone sharp and almost snappish. He sighed. 'Sorry. It's just… I don't believe for one moment they're simply going to let this be.'

Hermione paused before she spoke, frowning. 'How do you mean? They aren't going to…'

'They might,' Draco replied darkly. 'All I'm saying is that they _might_, and I ought to be careful. At least keep an eye on them until I know what they're doing.'

Hermione bit her lip, worried for a moment. 'They're not going to do anything,' she said at last, slowly. 'They know…'

'They don't know anything,' Draco said firmly. 'All they know is that I stayed at the Order over summer, where we fought as much as we always have – excepting you – and then we came back to school and suddenly you're telling them that we're… whatever we are,' he finished impatiently. 'Like friends. Would be friends if I had a clue about emotions, anyway.'

Hermione bit her lip. Draco had closed his eyes, frowning lightly, and he looked pale and unearthly in the dim lighting of the library. Almost as if he were glowing, as angels were supposed to.

She leaned forward, resting her head on her arm in a mirror image of Draco, facing him. His eyes opened, and he frowned at her and glanced down, towards the table. He really did seem impossibly pale; she could see every shadow and highlight of his face, now, and the places where the light caught his face seemed almost pure white. Where the shadows clung to him, they traced his skin in elegant shades of pale grey, darkening through medium to charcoal, until at the darkest place – the side of his neck, just where it passed into invisibility, blocked by his arm – it seemed almost the black of a midnight sky.

Like a pencil drawing, almost; everything in shades of grey, beautiful but lifeless, parchment and pencil and not human, though it took a human form.

'Draco?' she asked, almost half afraid that he wasn't real, and he moved his eyes towards her. She took a breath. 'I think… I say we _are_ friends.'

His expression didn't change. 'I haven't a clue what friendship is, Hermione, how can I…'

He fell silent, and after a moment, Hermione spoke. 'When I was five, my cousin was staying with me and we had ice cream after tea,' she began, in a moment of sudden inspiration. 'My mum left us, and he scooped up the biggest spoonful of ice cream he could and acted like he was going to throw it at me. Like a catapult, and I had my favourite dress on,' she said, smiling slightly at the memory. 'I begged him not to, but he did it anyway.' She moved her hands out from under her head to describe the movement; one hand holding the handle of the spoon, the other pulling the bowl back, ready to catapult the ice cream forwards, then mimed flicking the ice cream at her imaginary younger self.

'The next thing I knew,' she finished, 'my cousin had a huge load of ice cream in his hair, freezing cold, and he was wailing as though someone was pulling all his toenails out. Mum never did figure out how he managed to flick ice cream into his own hair…'

'Accidental magic,' Draco replied, shrugging slightly. 'Everyone magical does it.'

'Without knowing how, or understanding it,' Hermione finished, with a small triumphant smile. 'Which doesn't make them any less magical because they don't understand it. I was thinking about it in Hogsmeade,' she explained. 'Because I had to tell Ron and Harry you were my friend, otherwise I'd have had to explain about you being half-Fallen, and then I ended up thinking. I don't understand friendship properly either, you know.'

'You don't?' Draco looked half-amazed at this.

'No. I understand it well enough to recognise it, and tell you a bit about what it feels like and what it means and the bigger chunks it consists of, but…' She shrugged. 'You don't think about them when you've always had them.'

Draco didn't reply to this, instead tilting his head slightly to stare at the table again. 'I think I'd like to be friends,' he said eventually, quietly, and a slow but wide smile began to creep over his face. Hermione found herself smiling back.

'Then we're friends. Officially.'

* * *

**A/N: **The song that Ron's lollipop sings is in fact real: it's an infamous Scottish song called _The Ball of Kirriemuir_ (among other names…). There are numerous versions on the web, all slightly different and all incredibly rude. Seriously, that's the politest verse. It also tells you something about my family that my dad taught it me, or at least the first verse. He's also introduced me to a French Foreign Legion marching song which begins 'Gosh, here is a pudding, here is a pudding, here is a pudding.' But in French. My dad likes the unusual.

On the topic of music: I keep meaning to find Fallen!Draco a theme tune, but being decidedly unmusical and owning all of one CD and a radio, I haven't found one yet. Hence I turn to you, my wonderful reviewers; what song do you think best fits the Draco of Fallen, and why?


	41. BloodFlavoured Lollipops

**Chapter 40: Blood-Flavoured Lollipops**

**Disclaimer:** After Xmas, I own lots of shiny new things, including a very funky new CD player. Santa did not, however, bring me the rights to Harry Potter. J.K.Rowling still owns them. Ah, well…

**Thanks for 1718 reviews goes to: **Rebecca15, willowfairy, Go10, abi-j, Daisy Miller, LittleGreenPerson, Raiast, Plaidly Lush, Medea Callous, PsYcHoJo, Clytemnestre, draconas, samhaincat, Silver Moonset, Flexi Lexi, Zyzychyn, Madam Midnight, threepastmidnight09, Janie Granger, Me, SycoCallie, Chisa Yume, Hidden Relevance, FalconWing, Kiyoko, Sai Phreeoow, Karma Chameleon, PhAnToM-ChiK, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, RadWitch1, madame malfoy, girliedragon, Noubliz, Catatonic Caudillo, Keindra, savvyfairy, Pheonix, Evil Scientist, Nikki, Cherry Lollipop (x10), ablakevh, NotreDamegirlie, Wotton, Dmitri, Tayz, PinkTribeChick, Draco, Lady Mariel, yourGUN-myhead, morning-flower (x5), Natalie Garner, Stoneage Woman, langocska, Best Deception, RalientKroxmysox721, Genevieve Jones, amerie, Slytheravengryffinpuff, heavengurl899, MistressMaliceMalfoy, citcat299, Yami Shizu-Kira, Bernard and Spinach (x2), Food-luva, BouncingDelta88 (x2), ToOtHpIcK, Xairea, JoeBob1379, WWJD4mE2LiVe (x2), Storm079 (x3), Alyssium, Jpearl19 (x2), mswyrr(x2), Qmaria, Weruca, Samila, SIRIUSlyConfused, bonessassan, Je Cours, finally-defeated,

**A/N:** I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas, Solstice, Hanukkah, or other wintertime festival of their choosing in the past days. Or, of course, that anyone who celebrated nothing had a generally great past few days as well! (Yeah, you've got to be politically correct…)

I found all the suggestions for Draco's theme song utterly fascinating, but as of yet I haven't managed to choose one. I have got a whole folder of lyrics in my favourites folder though, which I am perusing with great interest. I'm not a very musical person – I personally think that all my musical ability got shoved into writing ability, leaving me good at writing but completely unable to remain in the right key, let alone the right notes, when I sing – so all your suggestions were of great help. It's also interesting seeing the different songs that people connect with Fallen!Draco! I may end up with a Draco soundtrack, rather than just a theme song.

Onto the bad news: as some of you will have seen in Macbeth's last update, I'm having to change the schedule of updates, because I'm sure you've all noticed that I'm having a few problems keeping to schedule… The good news is that I'm letting you lot choose the schedule. The options are:

1. Macbeth once every two weeks: Fallen every week.

2. Fallen once every two weeks: Macbeth every week

3. Fallen every two weeks, Macbeth every two weeks (in other words, they alternate: one week Macbeth, the other Fallen)

If you're divided between the options, do a favour to your author and go for option three? Alternating is currently two votes ahead of option one, and number two's… well, very far behind. Alternating updates is my current favourite, because it does make things a lot easier for both me and my betae, and gives me more opportunity to work on homework, other projects, and also on actually relaxing, which is a precious rare commodity these days… Mmm. Don't vote if you already voted in Macbeth, but do if you haven't. I'll be checking, and waving my 'Vote for Alternating!' flag. It will, of course, be revised after Macbeth.

With that said, onto the fic. Enjoy!

* * *

_A mother is not a person to lean on but a person to make leaning unnecessary. _

_**Dorothy C. Fisher**_

* * *

_Dear Hermione,_

_Don't be worried about sounding rude! I must confess I'd wanted to talk to you ever since Draco mentioned you in one of his letters, and while your letter was a surprise it was by no means an unpleasant one._

_The first and most important thing I have to say is _thank you_. The change from Fallen to human is… well, a very difficult one, to say the least, and I don't think we – as humans who have never been without emotion – will ever fully understand what it's like to gain it after lacking it all your life. I own some diaries and writings by half-Fallens who changed to human, and a lot of them seem… very depressed, to say the least. Many became suicidal. _

_Draco is incredibly lucky to have someone like you to help him and befriend him, and I can only thank you profusely and from the bottom of my heart for doing so. If ever you need something that I can help you with, no matter how difficult or time-consuming, do not hesitate to ask. It would be the least I can do for the gift you've given me – my son's happiness._

_But enough of that – you didn't write to ask for a mother's gratitude! As to the topic of half-Fallens; while the collection of writings here is very extensive, there are relatively few stories of the half-Fallens who changed to humans. Most such writings were burnt or obliterated by later generations of half-Fallens – obviously, they don't want such information remaining around, lest we get hold of it and work out what method it is which turns them to humans. There are many books about half-Fallen genealogies, physiology, psychology… but very little about those who turn human._

_However, from the diaries and books there _are_… Half-Fallens can turn human at any age, though for what reason we don't know. The most recent one to change, whose diary is now in my possession – she died many years ago, before even the Dark Lord's first rise to power – changed when visiting the theatre, for example. Another one changed while eating breakfast with his wife, and another during a game of chess. We don't know why the change happens, but diaries an other documents do tell us a bit about it – it's always very sudden. There is no slow fade-in to the world of emotion; its gain is instantaneous. The understanding of them, of course, is the thing that takes time._

_What happens after that varies greatly between people. Some – an alarming number – are completely unable to cope with emotion. Not entirely surprising, I must admit when you consider that many humans who've had them all their lives cannot cope either. Many of the half-Fallens become depressed, many killing themselves. I was terrified after sending Draco to the Order – for his own safety: Lucius would stop at nothing in his attempts to turn Draco back, and would kill him if such proved impossible. I didn't know how he was coping, or even if he was coping. Every morning I woke up terrified that he might have killed himself in the night. I know I've already said this, but thank you – if you hadn't found out, if you hadn't tried to help him, that could have happened by now._

_One area of human half-Fallens that _is_ well documented is the possibility of their changing back. Draco may have told you this, but: a half-Fallen is, in essence, two beings – a Fallen and a human – together in one body. The half-Fallen can switch between either physical form at a moment's thought, but the minds are completely separate. Only one mind can be dominant, and that's usually the Fallen mind. The Fallen mind is the stronger of the two. However, as has happened with Draco, the two minds can flip – quite suddenly, in response to some unknown trigger._

_This can be reversed, as the Fallen mind can fight back, struggle for dominance and once more win. I don't want to alarm you – stay calm! The switch back is usually much more prolonged then the initial switch, not because one mind gradually fades into the other, but because the human mind can sense the Fallen half struggling; then some brief, seconds-only switches may occur with the human mind regaining control quickly, which get longer and longer until the switch back is permanent._

_Again, don't worry. Draco hasn't shown any signs of this yet, and if he does, you'll have plenty of time to combat it when it arises. With some changed half-Fallens it never happens, and others manage to fight with the Fallen mind and win. It's like the possibility of breaking a leg, or becoming sick – it can and possibly will happen someday, but it may never do, and if it does, that's the time to fight it. Worrying about something that may never happen will do no good; put it at the back of your mind, in case it ever does begin, but forget it for the present._

_I really don't know what else to tell you about. Is there any specific thing you need to know? Ask me, and I'll send you the information as quickly as I can._

_In the meantime, send me whatever news of my son that you can. He sends me letters, of course, but he can't tell me everything, and I'm always worried that there's something he's leaving out because he doesn't want to worry me. I haven't known him very much as a human – for about a day, straight after he'd changed and before I had to send him away for his own safety. Tell me whatever you can, whatever you think he'd leave out. What he does, what he likes and dislikes, what you think of him – I shall be eternally thankful for anything and everything you can tell me, and the help and friendship you can give him._

_Yours with gratitude,_

_Narcissa._

Hermione put the letter down, a smile lingering around her lips. She hadn't really known, when she'd written to Narcissa, what to expect in reply. She'd seen her once, at the Quidditch World Cup match, and Draco had told her a bit about his mother, but that wasn't really enough to go on.

Admittedly a single letter didn't tell her everything, but her first impression was a good one, and she felt inexplicably reassured by the fact that Draco had such a caring mother. Frowning – and perhaps having gotten into the habit of analysing feelings, for Draco's sake – she tried to figure out why, and the best answer she could come up with was that she wasn't alone in helping and worrying about Draco. Narcissa felt like an ally, and somebody who was, to put it simply, a nice person, too.

One thing what was worrying Hermione a little was the warning that Narcissa had put in. He could change back. As the letter had said, there hadn't been any sign of that, and while the thought of it certainly scared her, she forced herself to follow Narcissa's advice and push it to the back of her mind. It might never happen, and if it did, it had a whole lifetime in which to happen. There was probably more likelihood of Draco being attacked by Dementors than there was of him switching back at this moment.

Hermione slipped the letter into her bedside drawer – she didn't want to leave it out; Lavender and Parvati would certainly ask difficult questions if they found it – and turned back to the owl that waited patiently in the window.

'Could you go to the Owlery and wait?' she asked. 'It's dinner time now, but afterwards I'll write back.' The owl gave a soft hoot, and rubbed its head affectionately against her hand. 'Thanks… Raphael,' she said, a memory of Draco once mentioning the owl's name coming to her suddenly and from nowhere. The owl hooted again, seeming pleased, and turned to fly away, headed for the Owlery. Hermione glanced once more at the drawer, already planning what she'd write after the evening meal, and hurried down to dinner.

* * *

Draco tried to spend as little time as possible in the Slytherin common room these days. Before his change, of course, he spent as much time there as possible; the common room was the hub of the Slytherin culture, where things began and ended and changed, never the same from minute to minute. There were always new alliances being made, or old ones broken; secrets betrayed or kept, individuals moving up the 'social ladder' or being cast down it. As a half-Fallen who needed to stay on top of things, to play one group against another for his own benefit, it was vital to be there at all times possible.

But now he couldn't have played the game even if he'd wanted to, and in the common room he felt like an outsider. The others simply ignored him, which meant that he could sit where he wanted and do pretty much what he liked; but the feeling of being alone in a crowd of people was disconcerting. So he avoided the common room for the most part; he passed through it on the way to and from his dormitory, and that was all.

He was just heading for the staircase to fetch his schoolbag when he heard someone call his name.

'Draco!'

He turned round to see Ellen dodging quickly around a tangled mess of chairs and tables towards him. The people she passed fell quiet, regarding her with anything from stony stares to outright hatred, but none of them tried to do anything to her, giving Draco quick glances before turning back to their conversations.

'How was Hogsmeade?' Ellen asked when she reached him, a polite smile on her face, which became rather more amused as she asked, 'Did you buy anything nice?'

Draco knew exactly what she was referring to, but decided to play innocent. 'Oh, a few things…' he said airily, shrugging. 'Nothing important…'

She gave him a disapproving look, tilting her head aside, and gave up her pretence. 'Any chocolate?'

'It's in my room,' he replied, smiling. 'I looked for you after I got back, but you weren't in the common room… I'll go get it now.'

Ellen actually beamed, and waited at the bottom of the boys' staircase while he went to fetch his schoolbag – he was planning on going to the library to do homework – and the sweets; the Honeyduke's bag was completely stuffed full, and her eyes lit up at the sight of it like – quite fittingly – those of a child in a candy store.

'I tried to buy some of all the commonest varieties. Oh, and a few of the more unusual ones, too,' he said as Ellen pulled out a Chocolate Frog.

She nodded, happily unpeeling the wrapper. 'I've had some sweets before, but not many. And Slytherins, I believe, should always attempt to learn as many facts as possible about the situation at hand. The situation at hand being chocolate,' she finished with a grin, biting into the feebly-wriggling Frog. 'Somehow chocolate tastes better when it's struggling.'

'Oddly enough, I've never noticed that myself,' Draco remarked. 'Where were you before dinner? I looked for you…'

'Detention,' Ellen said, making a face and taking another bite of her chocolate, chewing and swallowing before she continued. 'With Professor Delaney. Do you want to help me with these sweets?' she asked suddenly, looking up at him hopefully. 'I can't eat them all myself, you know.'

'Well, not all at once…' Draco said, frowning. He had been planning on working, but the essay wasn't due in for another week, and Ellen had a pleading expression on her face which did particularly bizarre things to the emotions, and well… he did quite like Honeyduke's chocolate. 'Okay, okay. I'll share your chocolate with you.'

Ellen grinned, handed him a Chocolate Frog and headed back through the crowd, weaving her way amongst the chairs. Draco spared a moment to remember exactly how much he disliked the common room before following her to the very darkest corner. At least, he reasoned, he wouldn't be alone here. Or in a crowd, for that matter: no one came to this corner but for Ellen and the other neutrals, the ones with no place in Slytherin.

Ellen dropped the sweets onto a rickety old table and curled up in one corner of a particularly gloomy sofa as though she'd lived there all her life, digging through the bag with enthusiasm. 'Oooh, Every Flavour Beans. I love these,' she remarked, pulling an oddly yellow one out of the bag and nibbling on the end, making a face.

'What is it?' Draco asked, taking one for himself and frowning. 'I think this one's parchment. Could be worse, I suppose…'

'Mine was pineapple,' Ellen said, reaching for more chocolate to get the taste out of her mouth, and in reply to Draco's puzzled look, explained, 'I just really hate pineapple. It's disgusting.'

Draco shrugged and took another bean, which thankfully turned out to be fudge-flavoured. 'Why did you get detention, anyway?' he asked.

'One of the boys said something horrible about Muggles. So I hexed him,' she explained, grinning. 'It took Madame Pomfrey ages to get the bluebells out of his nose…'

It took Draco a moment to place the spell. '_Scilla Nonscripta_?' he asked. 'Where did you learn that? It's not exactly a common spell…'

'Which is precisely why I learnt it. If I'm going to be attacked by my own housemates, I need to have some ability to defend myself, don't I? And if I use the common hexes that _everyone_ knows the counter spell to, they'll lift the hex and curse me back like _that_. But if I use uncommon ones…'

'They're less likely to know the counter spell,' Draco finished. 'Clever…'

She grinned, nibbling on a Liquorice Wand. 'Thanks. The DA's helpful too; we've only done the commonest ones so far, of course, but some of them can be really useful. I'm getting very good at _Expelliarmus_ and _Stupefy_, and if you get in quickly enough with those…'

'Wait a minute,' Draco interrupted, 'the DA? As in Potter's Defence club?'

Ellen nodded. 'When you're surrounded by enemies, anyone who's willing to offer help is a friend,' she said firmly. 'And like I said, it's useful.'

'I didn't know they even let Slytherins join,' Draco said thoughtfully, then shrugged. 'Do you think anyone's going to attack you again?'

'I don't know. Most of the Slytherins are pretty nasty to me, but… in the glaring, ignoring and scowling at me way, rather than doing anything violent. Oh, and insulting me too, though not as often as they could.' She frowned thoughtfully as she chewed on her liquorice, and eventually said, 'I don't like Delaney.'

'What about him specifically? He doesn't like Muggleborns…'

'I know, though it doesn't affect his teaching too much. He does try to be fair; you just see it in the way he acts sometimes. And well, with the amount of prejudice I get I'm fairly happy just to have someone who ignores it, really. No, it's not that so much. I just have…' She paused, searching for the right words. 'A bad feeling about him.'

Something dark and faintly ominous twisted at the bottom of Draco's stomach. 'A bad feeling?' he prompted.

'I can't put my finger on it,' she said thoughtfully, 'but there's something in the way he acts… Did you know he watches you at mealtimes?' she asked suddenly, looking straight at him, a slight frown on her face. Draco felt as though she'd hit him with a block of ice.

'What? He watches me?'

She nodded. 'Not all the time, but quite a lot of it. If I glance up at the teachers, well… about half the time he's looking in your direction. Sometimes he just _stares_, forgets to eat his meal…' Ellen shook her head. 'It's very odd. 'And like I say, I have a bad feeling about him.'

Draco leaned back into his chair, considering this. Delaney had to be the spy; he felt sure of it. Why else would he keep watching? And asking Snape about him, and…

'What's this?' Ellen cut into his thoughts, holding up what was unmistakeably a Blood-Flavoured Lollipop.

'Er… I think that got in there by accident…' Draco explained. 'It's blood-flavoured.'

'Blood-flavoured?' Ellen echoed, incredulous, staring at the lollipop in amazement. 'Who'd want one of those?'

'Vampires, presumably,' Draco replied. 'I wouldn't try it if I were you…'

But Ellen was already taking the packaging off. 'I did say I wanted to try all kinds of wizarding sweets,' she remarked with a half-smile, before popping the lollipop in her mouth and giving it an experimental suck.

'Well?' Draco asked, amused.

'This is going to sound weird,' Ellen replied, slowly, 'but it's actually really nice.'

Draco gave her a flat stare. 'A girl who can't stand pineapple but likes the taste of blood,' he remarked. 'I think I'll stick to the Chocolate Frogs.'

* * *

'I'm bored.' Ron protested, leaning backwards over the arm of the sofa. 'Stop talking about Potions, you two. There's a reason I didn't take that class this year, you know.'

'Well I didn't have a choice, and I have my OWLs coming up,' Ginny pointed out, frowning at her textbook. 'And I don't understand _anything_ about Sleeping Potions…'

'Don't exaggerate,' Hermione muttered, frowning at Ginny's latest essay. 'You know more than you think… you did get this bit about haematite wrong, though everything else's okay.'

'Really?' Ginny asked, raising her head in amazement. 'I made half of it up. Hang on, which bit's wrong… okay,' she said, frowning at the parchment. 'Where's my textbook…'

'It was on the table last time I saw it,' Harry remarked. The table was now mysterious empty. 'Did it fall off? Hang on… _Here_ it is,' he said, retrieving the book from the floor and handing it to Ginny.

She started flipping through the pages. 'Haematite, haematite… Thanks, Harry.'

Ron was still looking impatient. 'Hermione?' he asked. 'Fancy a game of chess? I'd ask Harry, but…'

'But I've already been beaten _three_ times today,' Harry interrupted, grinning.

'I don't win _all_ the time, you won one last week,' Ron pointed out. He turned back to Hermione. 'So shall we have a game?'

'Er…' Hermione said, glancing at her watch. She bit the corner of her lip. 'I don't really have the time…'

'Don't have the time?' Ron asked, mystified. 'It's only eight o'clock!'

'Well, yes…' Hermione drew herself up straight and looked straight at Ron with an almost defiant glint in her eye. 'I'd arranged to meet Draco in a few minutes, actually.'

Ginny coughed loudly, breaking the moment of awful silence. Ron turned back to the board, setting the pieces up with far more precision than was necessary. '…Oh. Oh, well, that's alright then,' he said, slightly stiffly. 'Ginny? Do you want a game? When you're finished, of course?'

'I'd love one,' Ginny replied, and after a moment in which it became apparent that no one was going to speak, started chattering – to fill up the silence if nothing else. 'Snape's such a git, sometimes. You know he set us this whole essay to do in two nights? And it's four feet long; all the other teachers give us at least a week for a four-foot essay. Well, apart from Professor McGonagall, she sometimes sets them to be done over a weekend, but still! It's ridiculous, doing a four-foot essay on two weeknights. Don't you think so, Harry?'

'What?' he asked, startled. His attention had been on Hermione. She looked uncomfortable; Ron looked faintly annoyed, though you could tell he was trying to hide it, and Harry himself was frowning. 'Oh, yes. He used to do the same to us, and he gets worse as you get nearer OWLs…'

Hermione glanced at the portrait hole, bit her lip, and got to her feet. 'I'll be… I should be back in an hour or so,' she said quietly, and headed off quickly. Harry and Ginny shared a glance, then looked away again, as the portrait closed softly in the difference. The atmosphere had not lightened at all.

Ron, still sitting at the chessboard, picked up the white queen in his hand, examining it, squeezing it tight in his fist. He put her down in the middle of the board, got to his feet, and flatly announced, 'I'm going to bed.'

'Ron, wait,' Harry called out, but Ron was already halfway across the common room, arms crossed across his chest as he walked. Frowning, Harry got to his feet and was about to follow his friend, but Ginny caught his hand.

'Don't,' she said simply. 'You know it's better to leave him be for a while.'

'You're right,' he replied, sighing and sinking into the seat next to her, pulling his feet up onto the sofa and tucking his knees under his chin as he thought. 'It's just… this whole Malfoy thing. It makes everything so…'

'Complicated?' Ginny offered, and he nodded.

'I just don't know what's going on,' he continued. 'I mean, why are they friends, how did it happen, what are his… his intentions, I guess… what does Hermione know that we don't?'

'I think she knows why he came to the Order,' Ginny said, thoughtfully. 'She said something had made him change, and she knew what it was, but she wouldn't tell me what. Which I suppose is fair; if she knew something like that about me I wouldn't want her telling Malfoy, so…'

'The only difference being that we know you're not a Death Eater out to murder her,' Harry pointed out, frowning.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. 'I almost _did_ kill her, in first year,' she pointed out. 'The Basilisk? Tom Riddle's diary? At least Malfoy's never got her Petrified in the Hospital Wing…'

'That wasn't your fault, he was controlling…'

'Yes, Harry, I know. I'm just… I've been thinking about this a lot, and… well I think he's changed, to put it simply.' Ginny shifted slightly in her seat. 'I believe Hermione.'

'You're sure?' he asked, and she nodded.

'I'm sure. Come on, I'd better get this essay corrected,' she sighed, picking up the textbook again. 'Do you know anything about haematite? I really can't figure out what it's on about…'

* * *

**A/N: **_Scilla Nonscripta _is actually a species of bluebell; I spotted it recently and instantly itched to use it, somewhere, somehow. It's make quite a good character name, wouldn't it?

Being quite exhausted from Xmas, I've can't think of any interesting wuestions to entertain you with, so I shall resort to asking: what questions should I ask in future chapters?

Don't forget to vote on the schedule! Review!


	42. Imminent Danger

**Chapter 41: Imminent Danger**

**Disclaimer:** Dear everyone who believes I own this, viz, the gullible or imperceptive: please send me £10. Yours, Cy.

**Thanks for 1843 reviews goes to: **Keindra, vfoxy713, LittleGreenPerson, MistressMaliceMalfoy, Go10, Calixte Ammonian, Slytheravengryffinpuff, foodie, narmolanya, Asia, PsYcHo-Jo, Chiinoyami-chan, Lady Rava, Rebecca15, Black Slytherin Girl, FalconWing, MadamMidnight, Tiffany&Co, Ansku, hersheys, nikethana, cloud9, draconas, heavengurl899 (x5), Nathonea, zoey-lou, madame malfoy (x2) langocska, ight, abi-j, liar, RedWitch1, alexix, Serpentine Wisdom, ablakevh, Lady Mariel, D/HR SHiPPER, Jaid Ziaen, Crown V-Lyn, kitkat, Plaidly Lush, Somus vertus, Erica G., savvyfairy, FlameWriter008, Genevieve Jones, BouncingDelta88, WWJD4mE2LiVe, Chisa Yume, Lyannie, SilverMoonset, Alexi Lupin (x2), CurlsofSerenity (x2), CrystalDragonfly, Stoneage Woman, Alyssium, willowfairy, steph, aurelione, Dracoluver, Building Cakes Is Fun, Sam8, Ano Nymous, Bella, Ms. Vedi da Queen, Sever13, Elodie (x4), JoeBob1379, brettley, Bernard and Spinach, Janie Granger, NotreDamegirlie, Melz, mj, PinkTribeChick, Tekkie, Dustbunnie, Cherry Lollipop, Tayz, Miko-Hime, elloodd (x5), amerie, lillyrose1, tomcat93, mrsbillehboyd, Fatalinie Blanchet, Devon Jase Colm (x20), Nikki, cookiemnstr, spinach (x3), BrokenSkye.

**Special Notice: **I'm planning on signing up for fandom aid; a livejournal community where fans of any fandom are invited to write, create icons, etcetera in order to raise money for the terrible tsunami disaster. I'll be writing a story for that which, for the foreseeable future, will be available only on that site – more on that when it's done. If there's anyone who wants to join up, the community name is fandom aid (with an underscore) and sign-ups close this Friday. The community will also be taking fic etc. requests in a week or so.

**A/N:** My computer died. Due to clogged-up cooling fans, which is absolutely infuriating, but the good news it's back now! The last bits were done in a bit of a rush, since I got it unclogged on Sunday evening, so it may not be the best chapter ever... Macbeth will hopefully be up on Friday, and if it isn't I'm probably dead, since Hannah has threatened to use my entrails to decorate the common room if she doesn't get the beta copy on Thursday.

Onto more positive news: 1. Fallen is now one year old. Anyone feel like singing Happy Birthday? 2. The alternating updates did win, giving me some much needed time for schoolwork and other projects – thank you so much to everyone who voted! 3. As to questions about Fallen genetics: since I get asked this quite a bit, I'll put some info on it in my profile. Or somewhere. As soon as I can get to let me change my profile… it's having issues with me at the moment. 4. When I said there would be wing-touching and further romance etc around Xmas, I meant Xmas _their_ time. (Which is in a couple of chapters.)

Enjoy!

* * *

_A danger foreseen is half-avoided._

**_Cheyenne Proverb._**

* * *

Draco was in the habit of going to breakfast early; mainly because it got him away from his dormitory before the rest of the Slytherins could wake up and create awkward tensions and also allowed him to eat breakfast in peace. Ellen was sometimes there, which helped to relieve the monotony of eating breakfast in silence, but otherwise he generally ignored the other Slytherins and read his copy of the Daily Prophet, when it arrived. 

He wandered in slightly later than usual that morning – only by a few minutes – and felt quite pleased to see that Ellen was there, sitting away from anyone else at the table, nibbling a piece of toast. She appeared to have been waiting for him, because her eyes were fixed on the doors, and she smiled with something like relief when she saw him.

Draco made his way over and sat down, reaching for the toast with a frown. Ellen was usually cheerful and chatty: this morning she was biting the inside of her cheek, looking tense and worried.

'Is something wrong?' he asked, before she could speak. She nodded, sighing slightly, and reached under the table, pulling a piece of parchment out of her bag.

'One of the school owls brought me this. Last night, around eleven. I don't know who sent it,' she said, handing over the parchment to Draco. Opening it, he recognised the handwriting immediately, from years of sitting together occasionally in lessons, sharing the same social circles and being what any casual observer would have deemed friends.

'It's from Blaise,' he muttered, frowning more deeply, and read.

_Consider this your final warning: stay away from Draco. For your own good as well as his. You are playing a dangerous game, Mudblood, by attempting to win his_ – Blaise had crossed a word out with her characteristic thick double line; Draco couldn't make it out – _protection. He does not care for Mudbloods and never will._

_If you require any convincing, Mudblood, I suggest you wait until _– another crossing-out; he could tell that this one had said 'tonight' _– tomorrow night. Draco cannot protect you forever._

'Wait until tonight?' he repeated, glancing up at Ellen. She had her elbows on the table, both hands on the back of her neck with her wrists supporting her jaw. 'What does that mean?'

'I don't know,' she replied. 'All that's happening tonight is a DA meeting. I think… I think it might mean they're going to try to attack me. Again.'

Draco glanced over the second paragraph and thought she was probably right. 'The only question is when,' he said thoughtfully, placing it down on the table. 'They won't do it in public, where they can get caught easily. Of course, that doesn't count in the Slytherin common room, because no one there cares…'

'Except you.' Unintentionally, her voice rose slightly on the 'you', making the statement into an accidental question. She didn't meet his eyes. What was it Blaise's letter had said? _He does not care for Mudbloods and never will._

'Except me,' he repeated, firmly, and she glanced up at him. 'And I know Slytherins are famous for not trusting each other, but I would _hope_ that you'd trust me over some anonymous letter of threats.'

'Sorry,' she said, abashed. 'I do, it's just… well, it's hard not to be paranoid.'

'Don't worry about it,' he said, picking up the letter again and frowning at it. 'I suggest you don't go near any of the less-frequented corridors today. Or the Slytherin common room. They probably won't try it between lessons, though they might if you're alone. Lunchtime or evening are the likely times.'

'Well they can't do anything in the DA,' Ellen remarked. 'There aren't that many Slytherins there.'

'And Hermione and the other Gryffindors would be furious,' Draco mused. 'What about lunchtime? In here is safe, but avoid the common room. Where are there lots of people…'

Ellen thought for a moment. 'The library, she said. 'As long as I stay around the front where Madam Pince is.'

Draco nodded his agreement. 'And don't come out until the corridors are full of people on the way to lessons,' he added. 'I'll try and come there with you if I can.'

Ellen smiled. 'Thanks,' she said, warmly. 'What about evening?'

'You should be safe at the DA,' he said thoughtfully, biting into another piece of toast and chewing thoughtfully. 'And in the library. Getting from one to the other… and, of course, to the dorms to sleep…'

'The corridors will be pretty much empty,' Ellen said. 'That'll be a problem… anyone could attack then.'

Draco sat back and thought for a minute. Obviously, Ellen alone would be no match for whoever Blaise chose to send to attack her – it wasn't Blaise's style to do the dirty work herself; he doubted she'd come in person. Which meant she would need help, and there was, as usual, only one person who could do that.

'I'll escort you,' he offered. 'To the DA, back to the library, and to the dorms later.'

Her head snapped up at that. 'You would? That'd work…' she said, thoughtfully, then grinned. 'Thanks.'

'Don't mention it,' he replied, waving a hand as he took another piece of toast. 'Until after I've scared off whoever attacks you, that is.' He smiled at her, though she didn't smile back, frowning slightly.

'Draco…' she began, slowly. 'I've never really... I mean, I don't know why…'

She seemed slightly timid, or as though she was having problems thinking of the right words. 'Why what?'

'Why you're helping me,' she finished, her words coming out in a rush. She glanced up at him, appearing almost slightly guilty, then continued, 'I mean, I know I was the one who asked you, but… well. It was a bit of a long shot, to be honest, and I didn't really think you would.'

She watched him for a moment as he ate his toast in silence, her pale eyes slightly narrowed as though trying to work out whether he was thinking, or whether he was angry with her for asking. After a moment, she ducked her head to look at the table. 'Sorry, I shouldn't have asked…'

'No, don't worry about it.' Draco said, making himself sound casual, and giving her a smile for good measure. 'I was just… considering.'

He was used to having a logical answer when someone asked why he was doing something; here all he had was emotion, and that wasn't logical, and he didn't understand it. The simple truth was that he had no idea why he wanted to help her, other than what Hermione had termed _compassion_, which was still too complicated – though he was getting better at it. But not good enough to explain it to Ellen, and she wouldn't be satisfied with him simply saying 'Compassion.'

On the other hand… Draco frowned. He might be able to get away with saying he didn't know. After all, Hermione sometimes didn't know things either, and other people sometimes didn't seem to have any idea what they were feeling…

'To be honest,' he said with a smile and a shrug, hoping that a casual manner could hide any flaws in what he said, 'I don't really know. I suppose I simply don't like seeing defenceless first-years get attacked.'

To his surprise, Ellen grinned at him. 'I suppose I should have expected an answer like that,' she replied enigmatically, and dug into the rest of her breakfast. Draco knew what she meant, of course – Slytherins were well known for keeping their feelings closely guarded, and Ellen must assume that his offhand reply was a lie in order to hide whatever his real reason was.

Draco supposed it was better than having his emotional ignorance spotted, at least. He laughed a little before returning to his toast.

A moment later – as Ellen started chatting about her Charms homework – he glanced up and sideways, towards the teacher's table. Only three of them were there at this hour; Dumbledore and Snape were deep in conversation; Snape his usual sullen self, Dumbledore's forehead furrowed deeply as though worried. This didn't greatly concern Draco.

What did concern him was the third member of the table, Delaney, whose dark eyes were firmly and contemplatively fixed on Draco, one eyebrow raised in what seemed to be a mixture of concern and disgust. Because Draco was eating with a Muggleborn, a Mudblood? Draco's stomach turned, and he bit firmly into his toast, willing himself to concentrate on his food and Ellen's conversation.

The hall was half-full by now, and a sudden screeching and thunder-like flapping of wings announced the arrival of the post.

* * *

Hermione woke up to a perfectly normal morning: the darker-than-usual sky outside her bedroom window reminding her that winter was very nearly there. Hard to believe there were only a few weeks left of term, really, she thought as she got dressed before heading to the common room to see if the others were up yet. 

They weren't – she was always the early riser among them – but fifteen minutes with a good book later and Ginny joined her, and a little while after that Harry and Ron joined them, half-asleep and yawning, and they went down to breakfast together.

There was never anything to indicate that it was anything other than a perfectly normal morning until they entered the Great Hall. Usually, at breakfast time, the room was one great mass of screaming, chatter and laughter.

Today there was less comfortable chatter and more intense conversations, and Dumbledore looked worried where he sat at the end of the room. Hermione's first thought, hitting her in the stomach like a physical blow, was: _There's been another Death Eater attack._

But after Aberddewin, the Great Hall had been lifeless. Everyone had been shocked and upset, or frightened; everyone had been talking about it. Even the first years. But today the first-years were happily chattering as usual, and the second-years. And no one looked nervous or frightened.

'Has there been another attack?' Ron asked beside her, to which Ginny shook her head.

'No, people don't look upset…'

Hermione was only half-listening to the conversation; the rest of her attention was on the Slytherin table. Draco had caught her eye – he looked apprehensive – and he was holding what was clearly a copy of the Daily Prophet, indicating the front. She couldn't make out the headline, but she could see a big picture of what appeared to be Fudge on the front page.

'Come on,' she muttered to her friends, giving Draco a nod and heading to the Gryffindor table. An owl had already left the newspaper in the place where she usually sat – she'd asked Neville, who was an early riser, to take some of her Knuts down to pay the owl with. The others followed; Harry throwing a suspicious glare in Draco's direction.

Hermione shared her copy of the paper with Ron; Harry and Ginny borrowed Lavender's copy.

_New Law 'To End Blood-Based Discrimination In The Workplace' _

_A proposed new 'positive discrimination' law, which will come before the Wizengamot next Monday, will hopefully put an end to the recent and startling blood-based discrimination in magical workplaces._

_Purebloods, historically better able to find work due to their greater understanding of and dedication to wizarding culture and ideals, have found themselves facing unemployment in recent months. Belle Hayes, the Wizengamot member who proposed the law, has this to say:_

_'In the past six months, five new members have joined the Wizengamot, replacing old ones who left to pursue other commitments or to retirement. Of these five, only one was Pureblooded. My son, who recently passed his NEWTs, has had difficulties finding work – though his Muggleborn peers have had a far easier time._

_'To me, this says that employers are unfairly favouring Muggleborns and half-bloods over members of the established Pureblood families. Many Muggleborns feel a prejudice towards Purebloods, perhaps feeling understandably intimidated by their lifelong connection to the wizarding world, and are reluctant to offer them work. To counter this discrimination, I fully believe that my positive discrimination law can and will put an end to this, simply and effectively.'_

_The law is a deceptively simple idea: a small Committee, set up by the Ministry, shall look at each company and branch of the civil service – places like St. Mungo's, which has one of the highest proportions of Muggleborns in the country – and set each one a target percentage of Purebloods and a time to reach said percentage. _

_Many notable voices in the wizarding community have supported this new law, including Lucius Malfoy, who informed the Prophet that he ' whole-heartedly supports this proposition'. Cornelius Fudge described it as, 'a sound move to end prejudice,' while Amelia Hodge, a prominent Wizengamot member, described it as, 'the only way to a happier, more tolerant wizarding Britain.'_

_One surprising voice of dissent was Hestia Bennett-Edmonds, daughter of the prominent Pureblood family, well known and loved throughout the wizarding world for her charity work and kindness towards Muggles. After the tragic attack in Aberddewin, she helped to raise thousands of Galleons for the survivors of the attack and for rebuilding the village. Witch Weekly recently commented that 'her generosity knows no bounds' – but her political views might be skewed._

_'I don't believe the so-called discrimination against Purebloods exists,' she told the Daily Prophet, in a startling but, perhaps, naive remark. When shown the undeniable results of numerous surveys into the proportions of Purebloods and Muggleborns in the workplace, she was still peculiarly unwilling to believe the simple truth. 'Historically, Muggleborns have always been the minority group, discriminated against heavily,' she told us. 'I don't believe that these surveys reveal intolerance against Purebloods; they reveal increased tolerance for Muggleborns. I do not think that is a bad thing,_

_Which leaves us wondering if, perhaps, there can be too much tolerance. Preference of Muggleborns to Purebloods, especially in the name of some imagined tolerance, cannot be allowed to continue. This new law will, once again, restore the balance between the two groups to satisfactory levels._

_(Witch Weekly is sponsoring a live debate on the topic of this law, to be held in Diagon Alley tomorrow at noon. Notable guest debaters have been invited, and all wizards and witches are welcome to watch. For details, please owl Claire Connor.)_

Hermione stood up abruptly, flinging the newspaper onto the table as though it were something filthy, pulling her wand from her pocket and shaking with fury. 'Incendio!' she spat, and the newspaper burst into a small inferno, shrivelling to blacked ashes.

'Oy, Hermione!' shouted Seamus, who had been sitting beside her. 'Watch it, you almost got…'

She wasn't listening; a simmering pit of absolute burning _fury_ had opened inside her and she wasn't paying attention to anything but the lies, the absolute lies. How dare they say that? How dare they? She had looked it up herself: Muggleborns were still being discriminated against, Purebloods still held more jobs, better jobs, on the same qualifications simply on the basis of a family, a _name_…'

'Hermione?' she dimly heard Ginny say, and dimly felt her catch hold of her hand. It was tempting to stay, but somewhere under the rage Hermione knew that if she sat back down and accepted sympathy she would burst into tears. Not in front of everyone; she didn't want to.

'I'll be fine,' she muttered, 'I just…' Ginny seemed to understand, anyway; she let go of her hand, giving Hermione a worried look. Hermione picked up her schoolbag – she always had great presence of mind – and stormed out.

* * *

She made it to her first lesson, of course, looking perfectly normal and smiling as though nothing was wrong, and continued like that throughout the day. Harry personally thought she'd spent a good half-hour after breakfast hexing something into pieces - and probably repairing it again when she was done. 

'I really don't like this,' he said to Ginny later as they made their way to the DA. Hermione and Ron were coming in a few minutes: Hermione was doing homework and Ron was playing chess with Dean.

'The law? None of us does,' Ginny replied, shifting uncomfortably. 'I was half ready to burn that newspaper myself, to tell you the truth.' She bit her lip. 'It's going to… it's going to be bad, isn't it.' It wasn't a question.

'Yes,' Harry sighed, and scuffed a shoe along the floor, not looking up. 'It'll make it a hell of a lot harder for Muggleborns and half-bloods to get jobs, for one thing. And… and that'll have all sorts of effects.'

'Like making people think Muggleborns are stealing their jobs, because they need this special law to protect them against it.'

'Less contact with Muggleborns in the workplace,' Harry added thoughtfully. 'And less contact means they'll have fewer examples to see that their prejudices are all wrong.'

Ginny was impressed. 'How'd you come up with that one?' she asked.

'Something we did at my old Muggle school,' he replied, shrugging. 'Not with Purebloods and Muggleborns, of course, but similar idea…' he said, as they turned the corner into the final corridor. 'I don't think…'

They stopped dead.

Entering the corridor from the opposite side, deep in conversation, were Malfoy and one of the first-year Slytherins – he'd forgotten her name, but remembered her face from the DA. She must have said something amusing, because at that precise moment Malfoy laughed: a pleasant, genuine laugh, rather than the scornful ones Harry had heard him give so many times before. A genuine laugh from Malfoy was as absurdly incongruous as one from Voldemort would have been; Harry felt himself shiver.

Malfoy must have noticed them at last, because he stopped short, his expression oddly guarded. The little girl by his side smiled brightly at Harry and Ginny, then glanced up at Malfoy and frowned.

It was Ginny who spoke first; she was well and truly used, by now, to talking through awkward silences. 'Malfoy,' she said civilly, nodding in his direction; he nodded in reply. 'And you are... Ellen?'

'Yes,' replied the girl, giving Ginny a wide smile. 'Ellen Meyers.'

'One of the Slytherins threatened her last night,' Malfoy remarked, his tone aloof and formal. He didn't look directly at either of them as he spoke. 'An anonymous letter, implying she'd be attacked sometime today. Most probably either on the way to or from your Defence club. I doubt they'd attempt it during, but…'

Harry's eyes narrowed – he didn't trust Malfoy – but Ginny nodded again. 'Thanks for telling us. We'll keep an eye out,' she said, nodding, and turned to Ellen with a wider smile. 'Don't worry.'

'I'm not worried,' Ellen chimed back, and looked up at Malfoy with a grin. 'Thanks, Draco,' she said; to which he nodded in reply.

The door was already there – they'd told the DA members to walk past three times and think of the practice room, but hadn't mentioned the full extent of the room's power. Ellen walked over to the door and slipped inside; Ginny, glancing between the two boys, quickly said, 'I'll go in, make sure no one tries anything,' and went after her, leaving Harry and Malfoy alone in the corridor.

Harry did consider, for a minute, simply nodding a civil farewell to Malfoy and heading in, but Malfoy was watching him shrewdly, eyes never moving from him, and Harry found himself utterly unable to control his curiosity, his suspicion.

'What do you want with Hermione?' he asked, without ever consciously forming the sentence in his mind.

Malfoy's gaze was cold and glitteringly clear; his chin raised sharply, proudly. 'I might as well ask what _you_ want with her,' he remarked. 'I doubt we want anything very different.'

'I don't know,' Harry replied, folding his arms. 'I don't know what you want with her. And I've never called her a… a _Mudblood_, or attacked her friends, or made her so angry she slapped me. I've certainly never wanted her murdered because her parents weren't magical. I've been friends with her since first year; there's nothing suspicious about me being friends with her. You, however…' he trailed off, giving Malfoy a grim stare, which the Slytherin met coolly and calmly.

'People change, Potter,' he said calmly, before stalking off down the corridor, straight past Harry with his head held high.

Harry pivoted on the spot, unbelieving, the words rising out of him and echoing off the stone walls before he'd even thought them through. 'Not this much. Not this quickly. You don't go from hating someone to being their friend in the space of a month or two, Malfoy.'

Malfoy stopped, halfway down the corridor, and glanced back over his shoulder, a bizarre mixture of annoyance and amusement evident in the precise and whip-like movement of his head, in the set of his shoulders and the glint in his eyes. 'If I told you that everything before this summer was my evil twin,' he asked, caustically, 'would you believe me?'

'Sarcasm won't get you anywhere,' Harry replied firmly, determined not to allow Malfoy to annoy him. 'Look, Malfoy, what do you want…'

'I want to be her friend,' Malfoy replied, turning his back and heading for the staircase. He paused for a moment, half turned back, then thought better of it. He simply added, in a firm tone of voice with some undercurrent that Harry had never head him use before, 'I _am_ her friend,' half-speaking to himself, before carrying on. He turned a corner and disappeared, leaving Harry feeling decidedly confused.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm incredibly glad just to have got this up at last! Macbeth will, hopefully, be up next Friday. 

Today's question: give me either 1. A joke that would make one of the Fallen characters laugh – who and why? OR 2. A riddle that is in some way connected to one of the Fallen characters – who and why?

Nope, this isn't for anything except general amusement. Review!


	43. Debate and Distraction

**Chapter 42: Debate and Distraction**

**Disclaimer:** There's a riddle: He who makes it does not need it, he who buys it does not want it, and he who uses it does not know it. What is it? A coffin.

Variation: She who makes it gets very rich and famous from it, she who buys it loves it, and she who uses it does not own it, so please don't sue her. What is it? Harry Potter.

**Thanks for 1921 reviews goes to: **MistressMaliceMalfoy, samhaincat, CurlsofSerenity, PsYcHoJo, alexix, ablakevh, Chuba, CrystalDragonfly, your illusion 02, Danfred, Madam Midnight, ToOtHpIcK, jules37, BlackSlytherinGirl, Perinnath, FalconWing, Indygodusk, RedWitch1, Alexi Lupin, Ce'Lyra, elloodd, Stoneage Woman, Plaidly Lush, BouncingDelta88, Medea Callous, Lisi (x2), Crown-V-Lyn, Janie Granger, Go10, Nikki, draconas, Lyannie, Karma Chameleon, WWJD4mE2LiVe, insipid-paragon, Queen Kat (x3) willowfairy, Genevieve Jones, FromHereToThere, LittleGreenPerson, Devon Jase Colm, (x8) Megan, ducksiesayxmuahx, PinkTribeChick, NotreDamegirlie, Sever13, Slytheravengryffinpuff, Riast, 9nine, cloud, The Samurai Pizza Cat, auracle, hyperactive-child, whereintheworldaremyshoes, heavengurl899, Kaylee-angel, Aeriel-Ravenna, leafsfan4eva, chasteaeon (x2), morningflower (x2), anata no egao, Marti Is So Cool, madame Malfoy, threepastmidnight, Anna.

**A/N:** Macbeth and Cursed have been **nominated for awards** on Dangerous Liaisons, the link to which is on my profile. Voting starts on the second of February, and all the nominated fics are amazing. Vote for your favourite!

Oh, and I don't appear to be able to add anyone to my update list at the moment… apologies!

I live on a main road, on the opposite side of which is a bus stop. When going out to the bus stop with my father, who luckily gets the bus at the same time as I do so I have someone to keep the blood in my hands from freezing solid, we invariably have to wait, patiently, for five minutes in rain, sleet or ice-laden winds by the roadside, waiting for a gap large enough for us to slip through. Whenever a gap appears, a car always appears from a subtly placed side-road and takes this gap. Dad and I have decided that there is a conspiracy at work here: some evil branch of the Death Eaters, the Lords of Traffic, are obviously busying themselves with preventing people getting across the road to the bus stop. (Further proof of this is given by the fact that a new dustbin, in bright magenta with gold detailing, was recently installed near said bus stop. Seriously. I have photos.)

The point of this anecdote is that they have clearly decided to branch out from merely controlling cars, and are now controlling g events in my life so that whenever a gice gap of Time To Write opens up, they send along a metaphorical Car of essays, homework, little pieces of computer which melt, and mother giving up smoking, which is good in principle but means I have to spend time making coffee, stopping parents from fighting and removing knives from there they have been stabbed brutally into the chopping board. (One of them managed to get an eating knife half an inch into solid wood. Am being _very careful_ around them at the moment.) Mum also decided that I needed my split ends trimming and sheared three inches off me while I was innocently texting. Nicotine deprivation is a terrifying thing.

To summarise: I apologise for the lateness.

In more cheerful news: I know quite a few of you were on Fawkes' Ashes, the HP forum on my profile, which has now closed (sadly. This isn't the cheerful part; that's coming in a minute) And a good few of you have been asking if I know of any other forums, and I don't, but you have set me off thinking, which is a decidedly dangerous pastime. About how I enjoy forums, and I'm generally good at setting things up on the web that have, for example, bearable colour schemes, and how I've run forum-like things before, and how I really would like somewhere I can talk to everyone a bit better than in ANs… do you see where this is going?

So yes, I'm considering **setting up a forum,** to which you shall all be invited. I'm still considering what kind of forum I should start; so I'm open to your input. Should it be mainly Harry Potter based with sections for general chat, or a more general forum with sections for Harry Potter? What kinds of sections do we need? Am throwing the questions open to any kind of input you have. Go wild.

But for now, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_All successful newspapers are ceaselessly querulous and bellicose. They never defend anyone or anything if they can help it; if the job is forced on them, they tackle it by denouncing someone or something else. _

**_H. L. Mencken (1880 - 1956)_**

* * *

Diagon Alley was packed. Of course it was always packed, but the temporary podium set up for the debate was drawing more attention than usual. Quite a lot of it was from casual shoppers, wandering past on their way to Gringotts or Madame Malkins or Flourish and Blotts, but there were a significant number of wizards and witches who appeared to be gathering specifically for the debate. People were conjuring chairs, or transfiguring them, and a haphazard array of seating was growing in clusters around the stage.

Claire Connor, reporter for Witch Weekly, surveyed the growing crowds with pleasure. She was fairly new to the magazine, having only passed her NEWTs a year or two ago, but after half a year of serving tea, duplicating documents and checking grammar, they'd started letting her write articles of her own, and from there her career had well and truly taken off.

And today was her big break, her chance to shine. The boss had called her into his office a few days ago, told her all about the positive discrimination laws – the Ministry had just notified him – and told her that they were planning on sponsoring a public debate on the topic. Then, a slight grin on his face, he'd told her the real gold. 'We'll be covering it on the Wizarding Wireless, of course, but our usual presenter is – ah – _unable_ to make the debate. So we need a stand-in, and I think you're up to the task. How about it?'

She'd been smirking for the rest of the day. The debate was big news, and if she covered it well, who knew what the future had in store? Plus, it felt wonderful to be usurping Emily, the usual reporter, from her throne. Emily was Muggleborn, and carelessly cosmopolitan about it, mixing Muggle and Wizard, English and continental as easily as mixing verbs and nouns in a sentence, with a cultured, easy manner which had all the wizards practically eating out of her hand. It was disgusting, and Claire was more than happy to knock her off the top spot.

Her wand gave a brief crackle at that moment, and she pulled it out of her robe. Right now, the wand was connected up to the Wizarding Wireless network, a magic-based system that mimicked the Muggle radio. What the Muggle system was like, she couldn't care less.

'Hey, Claire here,' she said into the tip of her wand, trying to look as if she did this every day and didn't feel incredibly stupid.

'Hey,' came the voice of her boss. 'How's it going down there? You almost ready to start?'

Claire nodded, before realising he couldn't see her. 'Five minutes or so,' she replied. 'The debaters are here and just finishing getting ready.'

'Great,' came the reply, 'Have fun, Claire, and remember the angle.'

All stories had an angle. A bias, if you wanted to call it that, although that was too negative. An opinion. The media presented a topic in a certain light, based on pressures from various powers, such as the Ministry, and pressures from the public. Annoy the first and you got in trouble, annoy the second and people abandoned your paper, magazine or station in droves – depending on how seriously you annoyed them, of course.

Oh, some of the others might say that your coverage should be completely honest, unbiased, but Claire was a Slytherin and she knew better. You said what would please people. Oh, you were truthful, of course, but it was so impossibly easy to make the truth say what you wanted it to.

'Miss Connor?'

She recognised the face immediately when she turned to look, of course. There was hardly a person in the wizarding world who didn't – Hestia Bennett-Edmonds, Pureblood celebrity, whose name never appeared in an article without the words charitable, generous and kind lurking somewhere nearby. 'It's a pleasure to meet you,' Claire replied, genuinely meaning it. Hestia was the one mothers held up to children as the height of virtue; it was impossible not to admire her.

Even if, on matters such as these, she may be slightly… misguided. 'I hear you're supporting the side against the law?'

Hestia nodded, an earnest look in her eyes. 'Yes, I am. Which side do you support, Miss Connor?'

'Me? I'm for it, myself,' she said, considering whether or not to say the thought which had just entered her mind. It could do no harm, she reasoned. 'A lot of the wizarding world is for it, you realise?'

'In my experience, the Muggleborns are for it, the Purebloods are against. With half-bloods in between,' Hestia said, and laughed. 'Myself being an exception, of course.'

'Well, it's the Purebloods who are going to be concerned about their jobs being taken over,' Claire remarked, thinking of Emily. 'The Muggleborns won't care. And the Wizengamot is mostly Purebloods, and they're the ones voting on the law, so…' Claire shrugged. 'It's pretty much a foregone conclusion.'

'Interesting, that. The Purebloods are afraid of their jobs being taken over, yet they're still in the majority on the Wizengamot,' Hestia mused, tilting her head on one side with an abstracted expression, though her eyes were sharp and alert. It was a very Slytherin thing to do, Claire thought. 'Well. I believe the debate is beginning soon; I should leave you. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Connor. You seem like a very honest person, if you don't mind my saying so; I'm sure you won't let your own opinions colour your reporting.'

That was Slytherin: it was an implicit command. Claire replied with a half-truth. 'My reporting will be as honest and unbiased as I can possible make it,' she assured Hestia. 'Good luck in the debate.'

It would be as unbiased as she could make it. After all, she didn't have the power to override her boss's orders; she was obliged to follow those, and thus couldn't have been utterly unbiased if she'd wanted to. Hestia simply smiled warmly, thanked her and headed for the stage.

Two minutes later, Claire was live and on air. 'It's one minute past twelve and this is Claire Connor, speaking to you live from Diagon Alley…'

* * *

_'… so thank you to both our guest debaters, as well as our audience both here and at home. The Wizengamot will be voting on the important issue of Muggleborn dominance in wizarding jobs next Monday; so if you want your chance to make your views known, owl the members with your views in the next few days. Next up on the Wizarding Wireless: Magical Meringues and Transfigured Trifles, the popular cooking show starring Vicky Spunge. For Witch Weekly on the Wireless, this was Cl-'_

Hermione reached out and snapped off the wireless, suddenly and with a precise motion that was almost vicious, plunging the room into a sudden almost-silence. The only sound was the muffled rattle of the rain against the windows. It even sounded cold.

Hermione took a sharp breath, raised her eyes. 'They're going to pass it, aren't they?' she asked. Her voice was low and level, outwardly calm, but Draco had spent years as a Fallen having to pick up and interpret things he'd never felt himself, and he noticed her hand on the table, clenched tightly around her quill into a tight fist with the sharp nib sticking out, as though she were about to stab someone.

Still, lying would do no good; she wouldn't believe him and it would only upset her more. 'Yes,' he said. 'They are. They… the Wizengamot is mostly made from Purebloods, the conservative kind. They'll vote for it, and you can be certain that Voldemort will bribe or blackmail those who wouldn't, or who aren't sure.'

Hermione's shoulders slumped, and she leaned forwards, resting her hands on the table with her forehead in her hands. Her hair fell down around her face, in dense strands that were the beginning of curls, surrounded by an aura of frizz. 'It's starting,' she said bleakly. 'In earnest. First it's our jobs, then it's our homes, our magic… how long do you think it'll be before they throw me out of here?' she asked, with a dark laugh that sounded half hysterical, half black humour.

Draco didn't laugh. He didn't know what to do, what to think, except that Hermione was upset and there weren't any easy solutions. Just comfort, which he didn't understand and didn't know how to offer, and somehow that made it feel worse. 'They won't throw you out,' he told her firmly. 'They might _try_, but do you think there's any way Dumbledore will actually let them?'

'He might not get much of a choice,' Hermione replied quietly. 'I hardly think Voldemort's going to… going to just let him stay. The Ministry took him away before, remember, they could do it again, or pass laws or put interfering menaces like Umbridge in the school and then there isn't much he can do, is there-'

'Hermione,' Draco interrupted, gently, because while he wasn't certain what to say, he was fairly certain about the fact that she needed to breathe at some point. 'Dumbledore would hardly sit back and let Voldemort take over, would he? Even if they did manage to stop the school taking Muggleborns, I bet he'd start up something unofficial. Or if worst comes to worst, I can owl you all the work. Secondly, it's not exactly going to be top of his list. Hogwarts is going to be the hardest place to infiltrate and influence, and you don't attack your enemy at its strongest point. So it probably won't happen until after you leave school.'

'I suppose,' Hermione replied, raising her head and looking slightly mollified, though her forehead was still creased with worry. 'It still isn't good though. I'm… I'm terrified of what they'll do next. I just don't know. It's like reading a horror story when you know something horrible is going to happen, except that you can't put real life down when it gets too scary.'

She sniffed a little, looking up at him, and Draco felt an absolutely horrible feeling. Part of it was a horrible hollow, desperate feeling like having two small hooks attached to his stomach and _tugged_, gently but insistently. That was wanting to help but not being able to, and then there was fear, an acid undertone from somewhere. And worry, and lots of other little things he didn't know the names of which coiled and twisted inside him.

He took a deep breath, and said, 'I don't know what to say. To help. I… I'm sorry.'

To his surprise, Hermione glanced up at him and smiled. 'Don't be. It's not your fault. And most people find it hard to know what to say, when there… when there aren't any easy answers.'

She frowned again, appearing distracted, until Draco spoke. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'What? Oh, no. Thank you, but…' She brushed her hair back behind her ears. 'I'm fine, don't worry. We should… did you pick up on anything in the debate?'

He gave her a very careful look, not sure if she was lying about being alright or telling the truth. Hermione must have noticed, because her mouth immediately split into an amused smile.

'Draco, I was being serious. I'm fine. Well,' she amended, seeing his disbelieving look, 'as fine as can be expected. If you want to do something, you can talk about the debate with me.'

'And thinking about the debate will help you stop worrying about the debate?' Draco asked, reaching out and toying with the edge of her parchment. 'Besides, you were the one who took all the notes.'

Hermione had taken notes on the debate, in neat and careful script, with direct quotations in red ink and her own comments in black. She'd needed two quills for that, and two inkpots; it had been rather difficult.

'I guess you're right,' Hermione said, frowning at the place where his fingers were worrying the parchment. 'It certainly won't help get my mind off the topic.'

'Why did you use different ink colours?' Draco asked, trying to get off the topic. 'It's too… complicated, messing around with different quills.'

'I got into the habit at my old school – before I came to Hogwarts,' she replied. 'Muggles don't write with quills, not any more, and it's easier to write in different colours with pens.'

'Pens are the Muggle version of quills, right? Draco asked, feeling as though something heavy in his chest had just been removed. It was quite a disconcerting feeling, really, which had him surreptitiously touching his wrist to check that his pulse was still there and his heart hadn't been somehow magically removed. There were Dark Arts spells to do that. He knew them.

Hermione nodded. 'They're like… imagine the shaft of the feather, without the feathery parts on. And the nib… well it's the same kind of nib for fountain pens, but biros have a rounded, blunt point. And the ink's inside the pen, you don't have to keep dipping it in an inkpot. Which is why it's easier to change colours with a pen. I still do it sometimes if I have time, it makes it look better.'

'Ink inside the pen? Draco asked, trying to understand the concept. 'Isn't that messy?'

'No, with fountain pens you have ink cartridges, and with biros you have a kind of plastic tube…' Draco hadn't a clue what she was on about, and she must have realised that, because she drifted off in mid sentence, shaking her head. 'I'll ask Mum and Dad to send some in their next letter, you'll probably understand better if you see them yourself.'

'Probably,' he repeated, and for the sake of continuing the conversation – Hermione's eyes were drifting to her notes again – he said, 'I can never understand all the Muggle stuff, you know. The only time I go near them is at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and that's… well, confusing. I never understand what's going on.'

'In what way?' Hermione asked. 'Though a train station is probably one of the most confusing Muggle places there is, so…' She left the sentence hanging, giving him an amused shrug and a small laugh, which made him smile in return.

'All these… these things that look like magic, but can't be,' he told her, after a moment's thought. 'Like the lights. They can't be fire because they're too steady, but they can't be magic because Muggles don't have it, and all I can find out is that it's something called… what's the word? _Electric_.'

To his surprise, Hermione's smile actually grew wider, as though laughing at some private joke. 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,' she said, the tone of her voice suggesting it was a quote. Draco felt disconcerted, as though all of the thoughts which made sense had been broken into pieces and scattered around his mind - like a jigsaw, or an anagram with the letters mixed up and in the wrong order. _Puzzled_, he thought, and almost laughed. The word was far too apt.

Shaking the thought out of his mind, he asked, 'What does that mean?'

'It means that any technology – that's the Muggle word for, oh, tools and machines and things like that – which is far enough advanced looks like magic. In the sense that you don't understand how it works. If wizards want light, we use a _lumos_ spell; if Muggles want light, they press a light switch and it comes on. Wizards don't know how the magic works, and Muggles don't know how their technology works, apart from a few people in both worlds who are the best of the inventors, the creators. Muggles and Wizards aren't that different after all.'

'Perhaps any sufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology,' Draco suggested, hoping it would make her laugh, and it did. For some reason, he liked to make her laugh. He hadn't a clue why, emotions being as bizarre and unpredictable as always, but he did.

'Perhaps,' she agreed. 'I remember starting Hogwarts and thinking that really the wizarding world isn't too dissimilar to the Muggle world. I mean, wizards have magic and Quidditch and Floo powder and moving pictures, and Muggles have technology and football and telephones and films, but that's just… magic and technology. We both have literature, art, medicine, education, politics, money, philosophy… And people act the same,' she finished, a slightly distant look on her face that made Draco feel as though she was speaking to herself, thinking aloud.

'I wouldn't really know, I've never met any Muggles,' he replied, shrugging. 'And there are a lot of differences. Different values, different societies…'

'There are liberally-minded Purebloods,' Hermione pointed out. 'Like the Weasleys. And Muggles can be conservative too. Or prejudiced.'

Draco sighed, leaning forward on the table and stretching slightly. 'People would say that families like the Weasleys have been 'tainted by Muggle beliefs'. Muggle-lover is an insult, after all. And Purebloods don't really care about whether Muggles have art or similar values, they focus on blood purity. That's all.' Belatedly, Draco noticed Hermione's expression; pale and frowning, staring at her noted without seeing. He put out a hand to cover them. 'We shouldn't be talking about this, let's discuss something else.'

But Hermione shook her head, looking so miserable that Draco wanted to do _something_, though he didn't know what. 'If everyone just keeps ignoring it and refusing to talk because it upsets them, we'll never get _anywhere_,' she said, her voice sounding firm unless you were listening closely. 'I hate this, I hate people not… not thinking, just doing what their parents do and hating what their parents hate and it's silly, because we aren't different at all, not in any way that matters.'

'I know,' he said gently, tugging the parchment with her notes on away from her. His liking of making her laugh seemed to be coupled with a disliking of seeing her cry, which sat uneasily around his lungs, tightening when he breathed in. He frowned, watching her, trying to think of something he could do.

'But you aren't going to do any good by getting upset, either,' he added, almost to himself. Hermione's fist was clenched tightly around one corner of the parchment, creasing it slightly. She was looking down at the table, a few strands of hair falling in front of her face, failing utterly to hide her expression.

What she needed was a distraction. That was something Draco had realised lately; emotions were like pain. If you stopped yourself thinking about them by reading a book, doing work, or talking to someone, you tended to forget about them, in much the same way that distracting yourself when in pain often made you forget it. Depending on the intensity of the pain, or the emotion, of course.

Of course, simply changing the subject wouldn't work, she'd see through that. Instead, after a moment's thought, he sighed a little, let himself slip forwards on the desk and half-buried his head in the crook of his arm. From the corner of his eye, he could just see Hermione. A moment passed with no sound other than the rain thundering at the window, then Hermione glanced up at him. He quickly flicked his eyes down to the table, downcast.

Her hand found its way to his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. 'What's wrong?' came Hermione's voice, and Draco had to work very hard to prevent himself grinning. It was working.

He gave another sigh and lifted his head slightly to look at her, then shrugged awkwardly. 'I don't know,' he replied. 'Everything, I suppose. The debate, and worrying about people attacking Ellen, and whether the Slytherins or your friends are going to be first to slip arsenic in my food.' He let himself laugh then, a hollow laugh at black humour. Inside, he was rather amused. Hermione looked concerned, but no longer depressed. What better way to get her mind off the problem of the debate than to get it onto some other problem? She'd spend so much time reassuring him that she'd forget to worry about the debate, and from there, he could easily pilot the subject onto something more cheerful.

'_My_ friends won't,' Hermione told him firmly. 'Not if they want to keep all their teeth.'

He smiled. 'Thanks. Are they… are they staying for the holidays?'

Hermione frowned, as if she didn't understand the question's relevance. 'Yes, but… Oh. You'll be staying too, won't you?'

'I can't exactly go home, so yes. Trapped in the Slytherin dungeon with whoever stays behind, which will probably be very tense, and Potter and the Weasleys glaring hexes at me whenever I want to spend time with you. I'm not particularly looking forward to it. You are staying, aren't you?' He knew perfectly well she was, but anything that gave her a chance to be reassuring…

'Of course I am,' she told him firmly. 'I usually stay for Christmas, to keep Harry company. And I won't let them do anything. I bet if I got you to actually talk to each other, you'd get on well, actually…' She drifted off, a distant, thoughtful look on her face.

'Me and _Weasley_?' he asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

'Well, you get on fine with me,' she pointed out. 'Besides, I won't let you spend the holidays alone, even if I have to feed everyone in Gryffindor Dreamless Sleep potion so I can sneak out without being noticed.'

He grinned at her. 'Thanks. What do you usually do at Christmas?'

'Well, in my family we have a tradition of…' She broke off suddenly, blinked, and stared at him in suspicion. 'Hang on. You were just changing the subject, weren't you? Trying to distract me. You weren't really upset at all!'

Feeling utterly amused, and quite proud of her for realising – Potter and Weasley wouldn't – he smirked and nodded. 'It worked, though,' he remarked. 'And you aren't upset anymore.'

Hermione shook her head, in a mixture of amusement and indignation. 'You absolute _Slytherin_,' and there was more affection in her voice than annoyance. Draco grinned in reply.

* * *

**A/N: **I must apologise to the real Claire Connor, who is actually very nice, for stealing her name. Hermione's multicoloured note-taking was inspired by Hannah Darke, who is very much like Hermione only shorter, blonder and more fanatic about Monty Python. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic' is a real quote by Arthur C. Clarke.

The review question for this chapter shall obviously be: what do you think about a forum? Should I start one? What kinds of things would you like to see in it? Games, contests, fanfic sections, Harry Potter discussion… should it be Harry Potter based or not? Something else? Any suggestions will be welcomed, along with your thoughts on the chapter, of course. Review!


	44. In The Girls' Toilet

**Chapter 43: In The Girls' Toilet**

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Harry Potter nor the wit to find a funny way of saying I don't own Harry Potter. Woe is me.

**Thanks for 1981 reviews goes to: **unperfectwolf, firesorceress1, Devon Jase Colm, brettley, Brinneybit, MartiIsSoCool, cuznhottie, PsYcHoJo, 09, Raven Januarye Kaye Kaedae, Madam Midnight, Mistress Malice Malfoy, Nathonea, Stoneage Woman, Lisi, Nikethana-Xaire'a, Sickness in Salvation, RedWitch1, hidden relevance, Little Green Person, El Ci Aech Johnson, ablakevh, foxeran, willowfairy, Zyzychyn, anon, Alexi Lupin, Ce'Lyra, Nikki, heavengurl899, sblomie, NotreDamegirlie, Go10, Munching Munchkin Management, Sever13, Plaidly Lush, ToOtHpIcK, elloodd, KarmaChameleon, SilverT-Spoon, WWJD4mE2LiVe, PinkTribeChick, Indygodusk, bluehazegrl, FanOfWriters, Genevieve Jones, Janie Granger, luckycharms129, The Dragon Sorceress, JoeBob1379, thecelcius, Chlandanya (x4) BouncingDelta88, FromHereToThere, Alyssium.

**A/N:** I had Fallen ready for update on Thursday night. Then? Then wouldn't let me log in, and my betae were, for various reasons, unable to give it more but the briefest of look-throughs. (Who do they think they are, going on _holiday! _I'll try and get this checked through and re-upload an improved copy later on, and change the mistake some of you spotted last chapter, too.) This, my friends, is what is known as 'Sod's Law'. Hotmail has also decided to start refusing to allow me to send emails to groups, which means that I can't send any more emails to people on my update list… I suggest author alerts, for those that can use them, and apologise to everyone else!

Not hat things are all doom and gloom: I did, thankfully, get the two ficlets for the fandom aid project I mentioned submitted on time. The links to the two fics, **Euthanasia** and **Sunlight**, can be found in my profile. (You remember the decidedly psychotic muse who inspired Cursed? These are her work again. I'd like to take this opportunity to reassure you all that I am a reasonably sane, happy person, who just happens to have the worrying ability to come up with decidedly dark plots, concepts and curses.) Remember that these stories are _for charity_, and if you read them, please do make a donation to any of the charities helping with the Tsunami disaster. There's also lots of other wonderful work by other writers, artists, etc. on the site in many different fandoms – look around!

Forum is going ahead, and is currently in planning. It will be on a Harry Potter/writing theme… have lots of very fun plans – more on that soon!

As for how long Fallen's going to be, _don't ask_, because I'm trying very hard not to think about it… it's like not looking down when you're dangling a long way up over a cliff you're currently abseiling down. If I look down, I'll freeze in terror at the sheer drop. I can see the beginnings of the DHr looming a (relatively) short way below, though…

With that thought, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_There are, in every age, new errors to be rectified and new prejudices to be opposed._

**_Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)_**

* * *

'So I get to stay in freezing cold Hogwarts while my parents fly to the Caribbean for a second honeymoon,' Ellen finished, rubbing her arms slightly in emphasis. Winter had definitely arrived at Hogwarts; the sight of the endless grassy lawns covered with powdery frost was becoming depressingly common. 'Is it _always_ this cold here in winter?'

Draco shrugged, trying to resist the temptation to walk faster. They were on their way to the library; Ellen to do homework and hide where it was safe, and Draco to meet Hermione as usual. They had arranged to meet at half past, which was approximately five minutes away, but he couldn't go any faster. Ellen was half-running to keep up as it was. Still, he supposed he wouldn't be very late, if at all…

'It's only November,' he pointed out. 'It'll get a little colder, I think. I don't really notice that much, the manor was always cold. Huge stone buildings are notoriously difficult to heat.'

Ellen shook her head. 'The wizarding world needs to be introduced to central heating,' she grumbled. 'Heating charms and fireplaces are great, but I prefer radiators. Our house was never this cold.'

'Radiators?' Draco asked, frowning at the unfamiliar word. 'What are those?'

'Oh, I forgot…' Ellen said. 'Er… I'm not sure how they work, but they're big metal things that you attach to the wall, and when you turn the heating on they get hot and the whole room warms up. I think they have water in, because the ones at school used to sound like waterfalls in the morning when they were heating up. It annoyed the teachers, but I always thought it sounded pretty.'

'Big metal things attached to the walls?' Draco repeated. 'Doesn't that look ugly?'

'A bit, I guess, but they can make the room much warmer than heating charms do,' Ellen said. 'They're usually somewhere out of the way. Under windows quite often.' She glanced at one of the windows as they passed, as if mentally chastising it for not having a radiator underneath. 'Heating charms are too weak, and fireplaces are too hot when you get up close to them,'

'And I suppose these radiator things are perfect?' Draco asked, amused.

'Well, not in schools.' Ellen said after thinking for a while. 'Schools have a tendency of putting the radiators on in the summer and turning them off in the winter,' she added with a knowledgeable nod.

Draco paused for a moment, decided he was confused, and asked, 'Why would they do that?'

'Well, they don't really,' Ellen told him, head on one side. 'It feels like they do though. But at home the radiators are always perfect.'

'I'll stick with fires and heating charms,' Draco muttered, shaking his head. 'You'll get used to it; the cold's not that bad after a while. I've stayed behind at Hogwarts before, it's actually quite nice at Christmas. A lot quieter, which should be good for you.'

'Fewer people trying to kill me,' Ellen agreed, with a bright and slightly sharp grin. Draco frowned. He couldn't pinpoint what it was about the look on her face, but he felt… and he couldn't find a word for that either. It wasn't a good feeling, it was a bad one, and distinctly uneasy, but beyond that he hadn't a clue.

'They aren't trying to _kill_ you,' Draco tried. 'Hurt you, yes, but they wouldn't kill you. If they get caught they'll be expelled and they know it; Slytherins wouldn't do something so stupid.'

'Even the ones who've been taught to hate my kind from the cradle?' Ellen asked bitterly. 'It would only take one or two of them, and I'm sure there are ways for them to kill me that would be untraceable. Poison, for one.'

Draco shivered slightly – they really _did_ need better heating charms in these corridors. 'There's always a chance they'll be found out, and they wouldn't risk it. Perhaps you should go to one of the teachers? Professor Snape's Head of Slytherin.'

'And what good could he do? Give them extra Potions homework?' Ellen asked caustically. 'Won't stop them hating me. And he can't really give us a lecture on not being prejudiced, can he? At best they'd ignore him, at worst they'd hex him unconscious for trying. There's nothing to be done except keep them too scared of trying.' She glanced up, giving him a half-smile; fear of Draco's Dark Arts abilities was, after all, the only thing keeping her from being attacked daily. For the first time, Draco realised exactly how vital he was to the first-year.

He smiled back. 'Well, they seem scared enough at the moment,' he replied. Blaise's note, a few days ago now, was still in his mind. They'd come across what he'd assumed was the attacking party on the way back from Potter's DA; a bunch of third-year Slytherins waiting, utterly silent, concealed in one of the side corridors. Draco had been utterly vigilant about watching for danger, and even he hadn't noticed until he and Ellen were right on top of them. Thankfully, once they saw Draco, they shied away from attacking and pretended they were just loitering around.

They had fallen silent while he remembered this, but carried on walking in companionable quiet for a few moments until a few corridors from the library, where Ellen stopped suddenly, hovering, her expression uncertain. 'Er, Draco, would you mind waiting while I…'

'While you what?' he asked, feeling slightly confused until he noticed the nearby door, marked with the symbol for a girls' toilet. 'Oh, go on,' he said, feeling slightly annoyed. 'But be quick, Hermione's waiting for me,'

Her face burst into a quick grin. 'Thanks,' she said, and hurried through the door. Draco leant against the nearest wall, keeping an eye on the door, and checked the time. Half past exactly, he was going to be late…

Still, he couldn't really leave Ellen. All it would take were a few of the more prejudiced Slytherins in the corridors and… well, he didn't believe they'd actually kill her, but putting her in the Hospital Wing was not out of the question. Perhaps he should go to Professor Snape. There wasn't much he could do, but the teachers should be aware of the situation. Though they probably were already; they weren't stupid. Barring a few notables like Trelawney, of course, who had earned the nickname of Trelooney among the younger years.

A pair of giggling girls turned the corner into the corridor, and stopped giggling when they realised they weren't alone anymore. Draco gave them a nod, and apart from a brief curious look they ignored him, heading for the girls' toilet. He let them; they were quite young, wearing Hufflepuff robes and he was fairly certain that one of them was Muggleborn, so he doubted they were any danger to Ellen.

The door swung shut behind them, and the quiet of an empty corridor returned. Draco glared at his watch, which informed him that he was now five minutes late, and returned his attention to the toilet door. How long could someone _spend_ in there?

The door flew open suddenly, and the pair of Hufflepuffs skittered through it, fleeing for the safety of the far wall as though they'd found the toilets full of werewolves. Draco glanced towards the door, which had slammed shut behind them, and found his mind instantly racing towards the only obvious conclusion. 'What's going on in there?' he asked, his hand already reaching for his wand.

The taller of the girls managed to gasp out a frightened, 'Some of the older girls, they're attacking…' before he was pushing the door open and storming through.

Two smirking girls were holding a struggling Ellen against one of the sinks; a third one stood in front, and Draco was just in time to see her throw a hex that snapped Ellen's head back against the mirror, shattering it, and sent a stream of blood flowing from her nose. The mix of emotions that struck him all at once made him feel distinctly disorientated, but he forced himself to ignore them, there was no _time_ for that.

They hadn't noticed him come in; he raised his wand, aiming for the attacker. '_Petrificus Totalus!_' Her arms snapped to her sides as she fell to the floor, rigid, and before the other two could react he hit them both with a quick '_Expelliarmus!_'

Wandless, the two girls looked first at their fallen friend, then at each other, fear on both their faces. Ellen slid to the floor, looking slightly dazed, but she gave Draco a distinct grin, pinching the bridge of her nose to stop it bleeding.

Draco prodded the fallen one with his toe, eyes never leaving the other two. He was well aware that the look in his eyes was decidedly vicious; he felt decidedly vicious, and only the very firm, very _human_ conscience was stopping him from using some of the more unusual of the Dark Arts on them.

Instead he gave them his most distinctly unnerving grin, and asked, 'Have you ever seen someone sneeze their entrails out through their nose?'

Dumbly, the girls shook their heads, eyes growing wide. One of them tried to speak. 'We didn't-'

'Then I will make certain that, should the three of you ever try attacking Ellen again, I'll arrange it so you can see it happening to each other,' he snapped. 'I suggest you leave.'

The two girls glanced between Ellen and their friend. The dark-haired one who'd spoken before, who seemed the bravest of the two, said, 'You wouldn't dare. The teachers-'

'Wouldn't know, as the wards on this school can't pick up that particular spell. The spell takes about five hours to run its course and the antidote potion, which regrows the entire digestive system and is in itself fairly painful needs a further two. So if I kidnapped you at night I could have you back in your beds by morning with no trace that anything had ever happened,' he told them, his voice sharp but firm. It would be all too easy; it had happened before, though not in his time at Hogwarts.

The girls shared another glance. 'We'll leave,' said the same girl as before, folding her arms defiantly. 'May we have our wands back?'

'You'll get them back later,' Draco told them. He wasn't about to give them back now, not where there were three of them who were all too likely to attack as soon as they got their hands on a suitable weapon.

From beneath the sink, Ellen spoke up. 'My wand…'

'Where is it?' Draco asked, and the girls nodded silently to the girl in the Full-Body-Bind on the floor. Without taking his eyes or wand off the other girls, he bent down and retrieved it from the girl's hand.

'Get out.' Draco told them, feeling suddenly sickened. 'And remember what I said. I _mean_ it.'

The girls didn't move. 'Aren't you going to release Emily?' one of them asked, nodding towards her friend. They both kept their heads high; they were defeated but still proud.

There was some vindictive burning feeling inside Draco as he answered. 'I'm sure you're strong enough to carry her between you,' he replied, raising an eyebrow.

'But that's!'

'Come on,' muttered the dark-haired girl, walking over to take the body-bound girl's shoulders. The second girl took her feet, and between them they managed to carry their swaying burden out the door. Draco kept his eye and wand on them both until the door banged shut behind them, before he allowed himself to turn his attention to Ellen.

'I'm fine,' was the first thing she said, wiping at the bloodstain under her nose. 'Just banged my head a bit. My nose stopped bleeding.'

'I did _see_ your head hit that mirror,' he told her firmly, crouching down beside her. Let me look…' He didn't even have to examine the back of her head closely; Ellen's muddy-blonde hair showed bloodstains remarkably well.

'I'm fine, it doesn't even hurt that much…' Ellen said, squirming slightly and looking uncomfortable.

'And if your head wasn't bleeding I might well take your word for it. Hold still and let me see, I think there might be glass in this…'

With a sigh, Ellen consented to Draco's examination, looking upwards to the broken mirror. 'Is it true that you get seven years bad luck for breaking mirrors?'

'Muggle superstition,' Draco told her. 'And if it was true they'd get the bad luck anyway; they're the ones who caused it to break.'

'Good,' Ellen said with deep satisfaction. 'I've got enough to be looking out for in the next seven years…'

Hogwarts lasted for seven years, Draco remembered, and tried not to shiver. 'I think there is glass here,' he told her. 'We'd better go to Madam Pomfrey, she can heal it.'

'Can't you?' Ellen asked.

'I'm not good with medical magic,' he told her. 'The only one I can do is heal broken bones, and that took me ages to learn. Malfoys have notoriously fragile bones,' he added, by way of explanation as he got to his feet and held a hand out to help her up.

She took it and got slowly to her feet. 'You're going to be really late to meet Hermione, you know. And you'll have to wait with me till Madam Pomfrey's done, because I can't go through the corridors on my own.

Draco shrugged. 'Getting your head seen to is the important issue at this point. Hermione will understand.'

'Alright,' Ellen said, took a step towards the door, and paused, an amused grin spreading over her face. 'Draco,' she said, 'you do realise you're in a _girls'_ bathroom, don't you?'

* * *

'Sorry I'm late.'

Draco's voice, sounding quite apologetic, startled Hermione, who had picked a book at random from the shelves and started reading when it became obvious he was going to be late. She looked up from the book to see him hovering at the entrance to their alcove, giving her a worried half-smile which made it quite impossible not to forgive him.

'Don't worry about it,' she said, closing the book and shoving it aside. 'What kept you? I thought you'd forgotten, or been held up or something…'

'I didn't forget,' Draco said, standing with one arm leaning on the edge of one of the bookcases, head on one side, a sudden frown on his face. 'I was… you know Ellen? The Muggleborn Slytherin in first-year, goes to your DA meetings.'

Hermione leapt to the obvious conclusion, eyes widening in horror. 'Something happened,' she said blankly, staring at him, getting to her feet without conscious thought. 'One of the Slytherins… Is she okay? What happened?'

'She's _fine_,' Draco said, in what was obviously meant to be a soothing manner. 'She's in the library now doing her homework, no harm done.' He crossed the room to her side, frowning, and she felt his hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her downwards. Her legs felt suddenly weak, and she sank slowly into the chair, hearing rather than seeing Draco sit down beside her.

'Hermione?' he asked. 'Are you alright?'

She shook herself and gave him a smile. 'I'm okay,' she assured him. 'Just got a little…' Realising that she couldn't really explain herself to Draco, she repeated herself. 'I'm fine.' He looked suspicious and opened his mouth as if to say something; she quickly cut him off.

'What happened, exactly?'

With an unwilling sigh, he frowned at her and gave in. 'We were on the way to the library,' he explained, 'and she stopped to go to the toilet, while I waited outside. After a minute or so, tho girls went in and then came running out like the Dark Lord himself was after them; I figured out that something must be happening, went in and stopped them.'

He fell silent then, watching her carefully, and Hermione realised that he really didn't want to tell her, and the reason why was obvious from his expression. Draco was worried. He knew that prejudice against Muggleborns always upset her, made her angry or despairing or both. And being so new to emotions, so confused by them, didn't it make sense he wouldn't want to do anything which would make her feel bad?

Hermione didn't know whether to be amused or endeared; she smiled reassuringly at him. 'Don't worry; you aren't going to upset me. Not much, anyway, and I don't mind if you do. Tell me what happened.'

He looked uncertain, rubbing his elbow with the opposite hand, but continued. 'There were three of them, all Slytherins, I think. No, one of them was a Ravenclaw. According to Ellen, when she went in there were three cubicles already occupied, so she went in the fourth and planned to stay in there until the others had left, and they'd never have known she was in there. Obviously they did find out, because when it went quiet she opened the door, to be cornered by the three girls. _Accio_ed her wand out of her bag before she could do anything, and…'

'And?' Hermione prompted. She was forcing herself to ignore the curling, unsettling feelings inside her; she noticed that her hand was clenched into a fist and forced it to relax. She had to stay calm; she didn't want Draco to think he was upsetting her.

'Two of them held her against the sinks, the other one did the attacking,' Draco said, his eyes loosely focussed on the table. 'Not sure what spell she used, but I was in there just in time to see it hit. Knocked her head back against the mirror and gave her a nosebleed, but she was okay otherwise. The mirror broke and a bit of glass got in the cut, but she was fine, Madam Pomfrey healed it in seconds.

Hermione kept herself calm, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She'd met Ellen at the DA; she was just a first year, an eleven-year-old girl. Polite and kind and quick to learn, and utterly undeserving of anything like this…

'You _are_ getting upset,' she heard Draco sigh beside her. 'You shouldn't have made me tell you.'

'Yes, I should,' she replied, coming back to reality at the sound of his voice. 'Really. I wanted to know, and I don't mind… I know it gets me angry, but I'd rather be angry than not know. It doesn't bother me that much, I'm used to it.'

'I suppose…' Draco said, still sounding uncertain. 'I don't know. I don't like seeing… seeing other people being upset, or angry, or being attacked by their own House, if it comes to that. Because I know how horrible those emotions are, and I just… I don't like seeing it. I suppose that's why I help Ellen.' He shrugged, staring at the table, head bowed so she couldn't see his face. One finger traced the patters on a worn knot in the table's surface.

'Which makes you a good person,' she told him softly, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. 'Empathy and compassion are very valuable qualities.'

'But that doesn't mean I particularly enjoy them,' Draco said, frowning at the table. 'They're a pain most of the time.'

'Do you want me to distract you?' she asked. Draco, to her surprise, burst out laughing. 'What's so funny?'

'You. Typical Gryffindor,' he explained with a grin. 'No subtlety at _all_. You aren't meant to tell someone you're distracting them, you know.'

'I can be subtle,' she pointed out, folding her arms in mock annoyance. 'And I don't have to be subtle to distract you.'

'How do you propose to distract me of you've already told me what you're doing?' he asked, a smooth smirk coming to his face. He slid down, arms on the table and chin resting atop them, eyes sparkling. 'I can be on my guard against you.'

'Well, you seem pretty distracted to me,' Hermione remarked with an air of smug superiority, and had to laugh at the expression on Draco's face when he realised she'd successfully distracted him.

'Your time spent with a Slytherin has obviously corrupted you, Hermione,' he remarked with an amused smile, turning his head sideways to rest comfortably on his sleeve. 'Your distraction techniques are so subtle they even managed to work on me. Of course,' he added, eyes flashing with amusement, 'I take all the credit for training you.'

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, and their conversation quickly turned to more pleasant discussion of the upcoming winter holidays.

* * *

**A/N: **Have been planning new fic (it always pays to plan ahead!) and have decided to do it in first person, because I'm getting tired of third and I want to do something new. (First person is as if one of the characters is telling the story, e.g. 'I walked to the window and twisted my hand in the velvet curtains.' Third is 'She walked…' etc.) However, what I simply cannot decide on is tense. Past or present? (i.e. 'I walked' or 'I walk', 'twisted' or 'twist'?) Throwing this over to you: which do you prefer? What are the pros and cons of each? (The narrator, by the way, will be Hermione. DHr pairing, fairly dark, middling length.)

Review!


	45. Holidays

**Chapter 44: Holidays**

**Disclaimer:** I'm just borrowing them from J.K.Rowling.So sue me :P

**Thanks for 2102 reviews goes to: **BlackSlytherinGirl, Siaram, Calixte Ammonian, Stoneage Woman, PsYcHoJo, Cyhiraeth, Lyannie, unperfect, SilverMoonset, RedWitch1, Kiyoko, AlexiLupin, Slytheravengryffinpuff (x2), Kaylee-Angel, April, madame malfoy, Plaidly Lush, Chuba, heart of glass x, CurlsofSerenity, Chaldanya, treehorse, dizzydragon, ablakevh, Nathonea, Marti Is So Cool, hpr0xmys0x, amy88, Sever13, sashlea (x4), elloodd, FromHereToThere, leafsfan4eva, Nikki, brettley, insipidparagon, willowfairy, Tayz, Dreaming One, Crown-V-Lyn, Alyssium, lilyE78, LittleGreenPerson, lisamarie0921, CuTeNcRaZy, heavengurl899, Best Deception, BoundingDelta88, bluehazegrl, Rebecca15, draconas, sblomie, The Comic, Janie Granger, azura14, Genevieve Jones, Tasha, ignatia, monokeneko, red briar rose (x2), yn, athenagoddess, Madam Midnight, just in passing, the snow crane, hypersarcasticinternetaddict (x2), Devon Jase Colm, booklover, kiss, SeverusSnape'sLove, nady, d, Alice (x19), mezzaluna, mish, JenCarpeDiem, lavender baby, PhoenixTears12, sticks-n-stones123, GetaCrazed, Veldevina, PonyUni4(x2), SilverRavenKaedae, CaptainHolly, nigellus, deeh, McDuffing Up, lisa, CountingSheep123, ali-lou, NotreDameGirlie, Crown-V-Lyn, bouncerok, Country Hermione, jude, Victoria.

**A/N:** I don't even _have_ enough apologies for the lateness, or enough space to list all the reasons which contributed. One of the main two reasons was the internet crashing for a week, meaning I couldn't get on to discuss things with my plot betae (and since the holidays are beginning, I really needed to. The fic is divided, in my mind, into five subsections, and this is the beginning of the third. They aren't all the same length though; so don't take that as a prediction on the remaining fic!) The other was some personal issues which, quite ironically, are reflected in the upcoming story. Which, as you may imagine, led to a good bit of block about it.

Thanks to all of you for being supportive and patient while Fallen's been on its hiatus. Your reviews have kept me smiling and cheerful when things went bad and the writing got hard. I couldn't ask for a better group of readers!

As an apology – remember those two ficlets I wrote for the fandom aid project to help victims of the tsunami? Now the project's officially over, both ficlets are going up on my profile, so after this chapter you have two other fics to read! Amazingly enough, neither of them is DHr. I'm also going to shift the wing-touching scene forward a few chapters. You deserve it.

Also thanks to everyone who helped me pick what tense to use for my next story. I did go for past, my overwhelming majority vote. Never let it be said I don't listen to the people! It does fit the style of the story better, because I can give it an extra psychological twist with it being told after the events have happened. The only problem is that it's going to be hard not to give away the ending! It's going to be my next project after Macbeth.

Forum is still underway, it's been on pause while I tried to catch up with updating.

* * *

_"If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But when they seldom come, they wish'd for come."_

**_William Shakespeare, King Henry IV_**

* * *

Ginny came to a neat landing, a few feet away from where Harry was helping wrestle the second Bludger back into its box. The last Quidditch practice of the term was over – save for whatever Harry had left to say to the team, of course, but Harry never let his post-match talks get too long. Especially not in this weather.

She found herself almost regretting being a Chaser, instead of Seeker as she had been briefly when Harry had been banned from playing last year. Not because she preferred playing Seeker, which she'd found rather boring at times, despite the possible glory. Swooping round for hours and watching for a gold glimmer did get monotonous, especially compared to the fast paced role of a Chaser. But it had meant that she could spend a few minutes sitting high above the practice games, watching for the Snitch and warming her hands up. Chasers got no such luxury.

She rubbed her hands together, watching Harry buckle the Bludgers into their cases and reflecting that her own fingers would be far too stiff to do so. The rest of the team gathered round as the Quaffle and Snitch were packed away and the case sealed, waiting impatiently for Harry to make his final speech and dismiss them to the warmth of the changing rooms.

At last, he straightened up and addressed the team. He looked tired from the flying, but then they all did, and his cheeks were flushed from the excitement and the icy, whipping winds. He always looked happier when he'd been flying, Ginny noticed, his eyes wider than usual and somehow greener. Though that might be from contrast with the Gryffindor scarf he was wearing, tucked tightly round his neck.

'I won't keep you long,' he assured them with his usual smile. 'You all did brilliantly, and if you fly like that in our matches we'll win the Cup by miles. The only problem, as you all know, is that the next match isn't very long after we come back.'

There were collective groans. Madam Hooch had reshuffled the timetables slightly, to the dismay of many, but she'd taken on some part-time work as a Quidditch coach for one of the smaller professional teams and couldn't be there to supervise at the usual times. Their first match was barely a week after they returned to school.

'So I need all of you to keep practicing over the Christmas holidays. I know that's probably going to be hard, especially those of us who are going home and live in Muggle areas, but if you can get to somewhere you can fly safely, even once, then get out there and practice for as long as you can. Understood?'

There were general nods and a couple of murmured agreements. 'Great. Let's get back inside, it's freezing out here.' That suggestion was greeted far more enthusiastically by the rest of the team, and people started to head for the changing rooms, chatting and laughing together.

Harry fell in beside Ginny and Ron, as he usually did. 'It's going to be odd not having to arrange Quidditch practices these next few weeks,' he said, sounding almost wistful. 'And having the match so soon after we get back…'

'We'll do fine,' Ginny assured him 'If we do as well as we did today, like you said, we'll beat them hands down.'

'Yeah, but we'll be out of practice,' Harry said. 'I mean, the other side will be too, but it's still worrying.'

Ginny rubbed her hands together, wondering if in this case the phrase 'feel like ice' could actually be literally applied. 'Ah well,' Ron said, giving a cheerful grin, 'at least the three of us can practice.'

'A Seeker, a Keeper and a Chaser, Ginny remarked, breathing on her hands to warm them. 'Some great games we'll be able to have.'

'Well, we can swap positions,' Ron pointed out. 'And maybe get some of the younger Gryffindors who are staying to play, too, it couldn't hurt. But not any of the other houses, they'll steal our strategies.'

Ginny was about to say, 'Oh, _honestly_,' but Harry spoke first. 'Sounds like a good idea,' he said, nodding to Ron. 'Though there aren't that many people staying this year.'

'There aren't?' Ron asked. 'I haven't been paying attention, really.'

'There's a few in third year, one or two in fourth…' Ginny said, considering as she flexed her fingers. 'Why is the weather so cold?'

'Your hands have gone all red,' Ron remarked.

'Very perceptive of you to notice,' Ginny replied. 'Chasers don't get the benefit of being able to pause for a few moments to warm their hands up.'

'Here,' Harry said, reaching up to tug the scarf he was wearing loose. 'You can borrow this to wrap your hands in, if you like.'

She accepted it with a smile, noting that the crimson and gold wool was still warm from nestling round his neck. 'Thanks,' she said.

'I wish I was going home,' Ellen remarked as she knelt on the wide windowsill. The golden sun of an early winter afternoon lit up the tower; far below, in the courtyard, laughing students were saying goodbyes to the few who were staying behind for the holidays, their conversations and cries drifting up to the window, muffled by distance but still audible, thanks to the fact that the tower window had no glass in it. 'It'd be nice just to get away from here from a bit. You know?'

She turned round to glance at Draco, who was sitting on a bench reading through a chapter in a fat Potions textbook that would be incredibly useful for his homework. 'Hmm?' he asked, glancing upwards. 'I guess it would be.'

He hadn't really thought about it, truthfully. Mainly because he couldn't go home even if he'd wanted to, not now he'd changed. His father would never let him go, not unless he changed back again, and Draco imagined his father would be able to think up all kinds of bizarre and potentially unpleasant methods to try and allow Draco's half-Fallen side to regain control.

Ellen twisted on the windowsill, sitting with her feet dangling a few inches above the floor, and considered Draco. Her head was tilted on one side, and her hair had been messed up by the wind; it left her looking almost amusingly like a scruffy, child-size scarecrow. She rubbed the back of her head with one hand, frowning slightly. 'Are you looking forward to the holidays?' she asked. 'I suppose it'll be nice for you not to have to baby-sit me any more.'

He looked up at that, smiling for no discernable reason. 'You aren't that bad,' he replied. 'Considering that otherwise I'd be doing much the same things, just on my own.'

'And without me to annoy you, or drag you up towers to watch people leave,' Ellen nodded, pulling an apple out of her pocket and examining it. 'I know I'm an annoyance, really.'

'You aren't that bad,' Draco repeated, frowning slightly as he tried to word out if that was true or not. He certainly didn't feel anything bad when baby-sitting Ellen, as she put it, and he disliked it when she got hurt. And she made him laugh sometimes, too, which as a good thing. He quite liked to laugh.

She shrugged, as if it didn't matter either way, and closed her eyes for a brief second before speaking. 'Thanks for coming up here, anyway. I wanted to watch people leave. Do you think it'll be safe for me to go out alone yet?' she asked. Draco shook his head.

'Not for a while, some people are always late to leave. And some get picked up by their parents, so not all of them will be going down to the train,' he explained, turning over a page in his textbook and glancing through the next few paragraphs. 'Wait a few hours.'

'I will,' Ellen promised, starting to twist the stem of her apple off. 'It'll be nice not having to worry about people trying to attack me. I'm quite looking forward to it. And I think over the holidays I should try and learn more defensive things, so you don't have to spend so much time guarding me, I don't like being a burden.'

'You aren't,' he assured her once again, then realised his tone lacked conviction. Which was due more to the face that he'd been caught by an interesting point in his textbook than because of a lie. He looked up from the book, remembering from his Fallen days how to work the right expressions. 'Really, you aren't,' he added, quite pleased with the touch of warmth in his voice, a pleasant feeling settling in his stomach. Ellen smiled, which only added to the glow.

'Thanks, I guess,' she said, then her smile deepened slightly and she reached round to rub at the back of her head once again. 'But I know you really want to spend more time with Hermione.'

Draco blinked a little at this, because he hadn't really considered this. He knew he did like spending time with Hermione, he knew he enjoyed it. More time? He supposed so; there was precious little else, after all, he had to do around Hogwarts. Homework and classes, yes, and Prefect duties occasionally, but if he wanted to spend time with people it was either Ellen or Hermione. And Hermione was nice. Not that Ellen wasn't nice, of course, but Hermione was… Well, she could help him with emotions, for a start. And he was getting better, so much better.

'I suppose,' he said eventually. Ellen's only response was to raise an eyebrow, the stalk of the apple finally coming away in her hand. She turned back to looking out of the window and dropped the stalk out, watching it fall, before turning her attention back to the crowd and leaning drowsily against the side of the window. Draco resumed reading his book, and was quite absorbed in the Potions theory for about five minutes before Ellen spoke.

'I think I can see Hermione from up here.'

'Really? Draco asked, glancing up. 'Probably saying goodbye to the rest of the Gryffindors.'

'Probably. I don't recognise most of them – well, apart from Harry Potter-'

'_Everyone_ recognises Potter,' Draco remarked, putting his book aside and crossing over to look out of the window. Ellen shuffled up to make room for him on the sill, and he sat beside her, frowning at the coldness of the wintry air. It wouldn't be pleasant flying in this, once winter really arrived. 'Where?' he asked.

Ellen pointed to a group of people quite close to the castle gate; Draco immediately spotted Hermione, laughing a farewell to someone he thought might be Neville Longbottom, of all people. He knew that Potter and both Weasleys were staying as well as Hermione; and he could make them out too, saying goodbye to the rest of the Gryffindors. Truth be told, he was looking forward to the holidays and spending more time with Hermione, without the pressures of classes and homework.

'Looks like them,' he agreed, leaning back against the windowframe. Ellen bit into her apple, nodding, and turned her attention back to the world outside. They fell into quite a companionable silence; Draco took the opportunity to watch people leave. Hermione finished saying goodbye to the Gryffindors quite soon – Lavender and Parvati gave her short hugs before stepping up into their carriage – and she headed back inside with Ron and Potter. No one really wanted to be outside in this cold weather, after all; winter was making its approach well and truly known. Perhaps…

He wasn't paying attention to Ellen; he wasn't even concentrating on the courtyard far below him. But from the corner of his eye he saw the movement; saw Ellen slipping sideways and out of the window.

He reacted before he could even think, reaching out to catch her; the feeling was sudden and white and sharp and unpleasant; then he caught her firmly, Ellen gasped a little in shock, and between herself and Draco managed to sit upright.

'Thanks,' she said, a little shakily, eyes straying sideways to the nasty drop. 'I, er, thanks.'

''What happened?' Draco asked, brushing her thanks away as irrelevant. 'Why did you fall? Did someone curse you?'

Ellen shook herself, folding her hands in her lap. 'No, no one cursed me. I just went a bit… dizzy, that's all, and it started going kind of black…' She made a gesture with her hand, as if to describe the darkness that way. 'My head has been hurting a bit,' she admitted.

'Where it hit the mirror?' Draco asked, frowning, and Ellen nodded. 'Why didn't you tell me sooner? We'd better go see Madam Pomfrey. Now.'

'I didn't want to make a fuss,' Ellen explained, sighing and slipping off the windowsill. 'You can probably leave me there, I bet she'll want to keep me for observation-' Ellen made a face '-or to fill me full of that horrible medicine.'

'Alright,' Draco replied. 'Don't leave for at least another hour, though, if she does let you go. Promise?'

'I promise,' Ellen replied, and headed for the door, walking quite steadily. Though, Draco mused, with a Slytherin that should never be taken at face value. He headed after her, making sure to have one eye on the girl at all times.

_Dear Mother,_ Draco wrote, and paused, twisting the end of his quill in his fingers and frowning as he tried to decide what to write.

It was odd. Some days he felt like writing pages and pages of parchment to his mother, going over every detail of his life and every odd feeling he'd noted and setting it all down in neat paragraphs, trapping it in words to be examined. That tended to clarify some things and make others more confusing. And even where it made things more confused, Draco knew his mother would come up with some useful advice, or a practical suggestion, or even just a reassurance that things would be alright.

Other days, though – and today seemed to be one of them- he had to search for anything to say. He didn't know what the difference between the two types of day were; he assumed it was something to do with emotions.

Well, while he was thinking of that, it would make a good thing to say. He dipped his quill in the inkpot and started writing.

_Sometimes I want to write so much in these letters that I have to limit myself to only the most relevant things, because otherwise I'll spend all evening describing and discussing the tiniest of details. Other times, like today, I find it hard to think of things to say. I wondered if it was connected to mood and what I was feeling at the time, but it doesn't appear to be, and I can't see anything obvious that affects it. _

_Knowing emotions, there isn't anything obvious, and it's probably futile to try and find some kind of logic to it._

_The odd thing is that I'm not automatically looking for logic and sense in feelings anymore. I always knew they were nonsensical, of course, but I never really understood it before I became human. I used to be… I would say 'contemptuous' or 'scornful', but they need emotions. You know what I mean; you've lived with Father and me. Contemptuous of humans who did such stupid things for no logical reason that I could see except this madness called emotion._

_But I think I'm getting used to being mad, really. I can sit and talk to Hermione and utterly forget that these feelings I have aren't rational, for the most part. The most irrational one is helping that Muggleborn first year, Ellen, because it does me absolutely no good and it ruins my reputation with my house even further, possibly even puts me in danger. I suppose it does do me some good – it stopped me feeling horrible when I saw her attacked, the first time. But then it makes me afraid, and all these other feelings too, little nauseous ones that really are unpleasant._

_Another thing: there are far too many feelings. When I was Fallen, I learnt how to mimic and recognise what I thought were all of them – fear, hatred, anger, affection, so forth – and then I thought there a lot. But then there are emotions which don't have proper names, or emotions which are all called by one word but have so many different variations. Like anger; I felt anger when some girls were attacking Ellen last night, but it was a completely different kind of anger to the kind I felt… it was a little after I changed, and I was angry because it had happened to me. And they're both anger but they feel very different._

_And then, of course, you never have just one emotion on its own. They mix together so much, and it makes it even harder to tell what I'm feeling. I always…_

'Draco? Draco Malfoy?'

The voice cut him off from his writing, and he looked up in annoyance; he'd just been getting into his stride. He hadn't recognised the speaker from the voice; it had been female and sounded worried.

'Yes? Who's there?' he asked, when a glance around the room showed that there was no one else near him. He frowned briefly at the thought that it might be a prank. 'Show yourself.'

'I'm here,' the voice came again. 'The picture.'

A picture? The portraits at Hogwarts didn't usually talk to the students; he frowned as he scanned the room. Ah, there; in a watercolour landscape that was usually empty of anything more interesting than trees and hills; an elegant brunette lady in fashionable Victorian dress was standing, watching him. Draco opened his mouth to ask her what she wanted, but she interrupted.

'You're… friends of a sort with that Mudblood girl, Ellen, aren't you?' she asked. 'I don't know why I'm telling you this, but…' The woman drew a deep breath 'She's being attacked.'

'What?' Draco asked, automatically getting to his feet. 'But… _damn_, I _told_ her not to leave Madam Pomfrey!' The thought crossed his mind that it might be a trick, but he ignored it; he couldn't afford to wait. If Ellen was in danger and he wasted time asking for proof… 'Where?'

'Third floor, near the Charms classroom,' the portrait said. Nodding and muttering a thanks, he snatched up his wand and ran, thinking – somewhere at the back of his mind which wasn't occupied with Ellen and the impending danger – that these were exactly the kinds of conflicting, muddled feelings he'd been on the point of complaining about.

* * *

**A/N: **And you'll have to wait to find out what happens. Sorry. Very sorry. But you have the two other fics to look at! Euthanasia and Sunlight are uploaded now on my profile. If you liked Cursed, these are very much by that same muse. Enjoy.

For this chapter's question, let's go with a hard but very useful one. What is love?


	46. Wings and Rain

**Chapter 45: Wings and Rain**

**Disclaimer:** Multiple choice question: which one of the following is NOT true? a) cyropi is a Pisces, b) cyropi is JKRowling, or c) cyropi is seventeen. Answers on a postcard…

**Thanks for 2185 reviews goes to: **Black Slytherin Girl, Cassandra Raven, MistressMaliceMalfoy, Plaidly Lush, Captain Holly, Marti Is So Cool, perrinath, Calixte Ammonian, starr talenyn, sashlea, draconas, dizzydragon, chaste-aeon, Rebecca15, chiyoko, lisamarie0921, mOviAnGel, abhinetri, Lyannie, sycoticatalyst, Alexi Lupin, Madam Midnight, Catelina, Madame Malfoy, sblomie, ali-lou, Janie Granger, RedWitch1, Simrun, Cherry Lollipop1988, Stoneage Woman, george, LaxGoalie, anonymous, Lisa, Bella, Beboots, Tayz, langocska, LittleGreenPerson, Nathonea, Best Deception, ToOtHpIcK (x2), leafsfan4eva, Alice, SugarQuillCandy, lilyE78, samhaincat, WWJD4mE2LiVe (x2), cuznhottie, Goddess of nagels, bonessasan, Gina (x2), Tasha, elloodd, Curls of Serenity, "Mistake." Sasuke, jude, lavender baby, willowfairy, brettley, Devon Jase Colm, Sever13, Go10, ananymous, Munching Munchkin Management, maximite, Lisi, Silver Eyes Bright, copyright, Ieatallpinkandfluffythings, Zyzychyn, unperfectwolf, Shadow Silver Wolf, Rayne, Flexi Lexi, SeverusSnape'sLove, DarkBlossem, Crystal Dragonfly, Genevieve Jones, trivia, deeh.

**A/N:** I have, amazingly, very little to say. I think all the work has short-circuited my brain, as my teachers are being ludicrous. We have exams coming up, we need to revise, and they keep setting us ridiculous amounts of work. (We keep complaining, though, so it should hopefully lessen soon…)

Thank you all for all the many varying definitions of love. If I've learnt one thing, it's that it's utterly indefineable!

Additionally, is anyone looking at/doing/has recently done a Creative Writing degree at a university in England/Scotland/Wales? Or knows someone who has? For preference, English Lit and Creative Writing, but any info on courses would be welcomed. Cheers.

Onto the chapter, anyway. Yes, it's late (when am I not with the exams approaching?) but it's both a good bit longer than the average and it has a bit you've all been requesting. So you can forgive me. Right?

Enjoy!

* * *

_Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they're often better groomed._

**_Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

* * *

_**

It was the smell that told Ellen where she was when she awoke. The Hospital Wing at Hogwarts didn't smell of disinfectant and chemicals like Muggle hospitals were supposed to; it smelt like healing potions, aniseed and thyme and some other things that she didn't know the names of. Ellen supposed wizards didn't use disinfectants; they probably had spells instead.

The sound of footsteps intruded on the soft silence of the Hospital Wing, making Ellen wince; the noise made her head throb with every footfall. It grew louder, though, finally culminating in the painful sound of a curtain being drawn back on rails. Ellen flinched at the sudden noise, and blearily opened her eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness of the light.

'I'm awake,' she said unnecessarily, surprised by how quiet her voice was. She tried again, looking up at the figure of Madam Pomfrey and ignoring the pain in her eyes at the light. 'I'm awake.'

'Of course,' came a soothing voice, and Madam Pomfrey's face came into view as she leaned in, giving Ellen a motherly pat on the head and a kindly smile. It reminded Ellen of her own mother, probably far away having the time of her life in the Caribbean, right now, and something squeezed itself painfully in Ellen's chest. She wished for a spell that could take her to her mother. Apparition would do it, but she couldn't learn that till she was older.

'Here,' Madam Pomfrey said again, and she pressed something cold – a glass of potion -into Ellen's hand, holding it steady. 'Drink this. Carefully, now. It'll help clear your head a bit.'

Ellen raised the glass to her lips and carefully drank it down. It was slightly bubbly, and it tasted – surprisingly – of marzipan. 'Thanks,' she said, closing her eyes again, and Madam Pomfrey left her in peace.

The potion did help; over the next five minutes Ellen found her head becoming clearer and less painful. The memory of what happened – she hadn't even _thought_ about it with her mind so fuzzy – came back properly. She'd left the Hospital Wing slightly earlier than she'd said, because Madam Pomfrey had been suspicious of her loitering and she really hadn't thought half an hour would make that much difference.

But of course, it had. She'd run into a bunch of Slytherins making their way down to the Entrance Hall and been taken utterly by surprise. They'd got her wand, and then most of what she'd remembered after that was an inventive succession of hexes. She'd very nearly escaped them at one point, but they'd knocked her to the floor by aiming a Trip Hex at her legs.

And then what? Things got a little hazy, after that; she must have hit her head when she fell. Ellen closed her eyes, trying to remember, but Madam Pomfrey returned after only a few seconds and destroyed her concentration.

'Does that feel better? Good. Come on then, sit up and I'll take a look at you. Does anything still hurt?'

Ellen pushed herself slowly into a sitting position, smiling when Madam Pomfrey reorganised the pillows behind her back for her. 'Nothing really hurts,' she said truthfully, 'but I feel a bit stiff.'

Madam Pomfrey nodded, already drawing her wand to prepare for an examination. 'It's a side effect of one of the potions,' she said, then frowned, her expression a mixture and disapproval and concern. 'You were in a bad way when you came in here, poor thing. And I was just looking forward to a nice quiet holiday, too. Oh, well…'

Ellen watched for a few minutes as Madam Pomfrey muttered spells and charms below her breath. It was nothing like a Muggle doctors' examination would be – Ellen had rarely needed a doctor, but the few times she'd been had given her a rough idea. Muggle doctors were supposed to ask questions, measure your pulse and blood pressure, poke the afflicted areas to see where they hurt, and all those kinds of things.

In contrast, the magical examination seemed to involve a lot of muttered spells which produced apparently meaningless effects; shrill noises, soft hums, glowing lights in all colours of the rainbow, and once a soft rhythm which Ellen could only assume was her heartbeat.

It was interesting at first, but it soon ceased to be so, and after a further minute of fidgeting and staring across the Hospital Wing Ellen spoke. 'Excuse me,' she asked, 'but… how did I get here?'

Madam Pomfrey appeared startled. 'What? Oh, sorry. It was Draco Malfoy who brought you. I didn't hear the full story, because you needed healing and he had a good few scratches too, but he said you were attacked?' A look of worry passed briefly over her face, settling thee more permanently when Ellen gave a brief nod. 'Has this happened before? Does your Head of House know about it, dear?'

'No,' Ellen said, noticing that her mouth felt rather dry; she ignored it. 'They've never really been violent before.' That was a lie, of course, but an acceptable one; Madam Pomfrey didn't know that her earlier head injury had been anything other than an accident.

'Well, he'll probably come and visit you when he hears you're in the Hospital Wing,' Madam Pomfrey continued. 'Perhaps you could talk to him then? Or one of the other teachers, if you'd rather.'

Ellen shook her head. 'I'll be fine talking to Professor Snape.' Truthfully, she knew that it didn't matter a bit which of the teachers knew about it. It would be best if none of them did; of course. Ellen had never actually been bullied before, but she'd seen how it worked, and as soon as teachers got involved and started to punish the bully things usually got worse as revenge. She didn't like Snape, but at least she knew that he was Slytherin enough not to do anything that would lead to the others being more violent.

Madam Pomfrey interrupted her thoughts again; she'd returned to her tests, and was now looking at a soft blue glow at her wand tip in a very peculiar way. 'Have you broken your arm lately?' she asked. 'I don't remember healing any broken bones…'

A dim memory of the attack returned to her. 'I think they might have broken it when they were attacking me,' she volunteered. 'I remember it _felt_ like they had…'

'Then how did it heal? I certainly didn't do it…' she mused. 'I could have been accidental magic, of course…'

'It could have been Draco,' Ellen supplied, remembering something she'd been told. 'His bones break easily, don't they? He said something about it being genetic, so it makes sense that he might know how to heal bones…'

'Possible,' Madam Pomfrey agreed, before her face darkened. 'Though he shouldn't be doing it without proper training. The last time a non-qualified wizard tried to heal a broken bone…'

She trailed off ominously, leaving Ellen to prompt her for details. 'What happened?'

'Poor boy lost all the bones in his arm,' Madam Pomfrey said, in such solemn tones that Ellen shivered. 'Of course, I could fix it, but it wasn't pleasant. So, you say the Malfoys have fragile bones, then?' she continued. 'That makes sense. I remember when I was a student here, Draco's father – you won't know him, I expect: Lucius Malfoy – was around my age, and he used to keep breaking bones too. One time, Gryffindor and Slytherin were playing a friendly match - though nothing's ever friendly between those two houses - and Lucius…'

Ellen settled back into the pillows and listened to Madam Pomfrey's bustling tale, a slight half-smile on her face.

* * *

Barely any of the Slytherins had stayed for the holidays. Besides Draco and Ellen, there were a couple of fairly quiet second-years, a fourth-year and Blaise Zabini. None of them had been in the common room when Draco returned from the Hospital Wing, so he took the opportunity to curl up in his old favourite armchair, in front of the fireplace, where he'd sat so long ago before everything changed and he'd become an outcast in his own house.

It didn't take him very long at all to come to the conclusion that he was _furious_.

He didn't like anger, it was a horrible hot feeling that made him feel he'd swallowed some kind of fire potion and was about to burn up from the inside out. Either that or freeze, because the accursed emotion kept changing between hot and cold. Right now it was hot, perfectly matching the almost tangible, oppressive sensation of heat coming from the fireplace.

He couldn't sit still; first his fingers would start twitching; when he stopped them his leg would start, and then he'd shift irritably in his seat. Despite the fact that the culprits were currently on the Hogwarts Express, miles away by now – they'd run off as soon as it became obvious he could best them all in a fight – he simply wanted to _punch_ something.

Which was completely irrational, because he had absolutely no reason to do so except for the anger. Revenge was generally a waste of time. And besides, hexes were a far more effective way of hurting people than bare fists. Instinct, however, suggested that something more hands-on would be far more satisfactory than the impersonal hex from a wand. A Fallen mind would never have understood that concept, however well it had been explained, but his human side felt it without having to be told.

Draco shoved the irrationality of it all to one side and shifted in his seat. The _most_ annoying thing about anger was that it was so hard to get rid of. Once he was angry, even the most minor flaw in the world around him – the fire was too hot, the chair too hard – seemed absolutely infuriating, only adding to the simmering sense of anger, augmenting it, strengthening it. And it wasn't just the environment, either; it was _everything_, until even the fact that he was angry was making him furious with himself.

He forced himself to take a deep breath – something he'd read about people doing in books when they were angry – but it didn't seem to help. This wasn't _useful_. It was a complete and utter waste of time, and he _ought_ to be able to control this. The urge to have some kind of screaming fit – breaking things looked attractive – over the unfairness of the world struck him, before passing in moments. The mere fact that he'd felt it annoyed him. He was not five years old!

He tried taking a few more deep breaths. Really, humans had to have a better way of coping with this. He ought to ask Hermione; she'd know the answer, if there was one.

For now? He could go flying, perhaps. Somehow he didn't think he could stay angry when he flew, and not just because of the strange, numbing contentment that touching his wings could produce. Flying, he had decided, deserved the word _euphoric_.

He had no sooner decided this than the door to the common room slid open; he twisted in his seat, glancing towards it, and scowled slightly when he saw Blaise outlined in the doorway. She caught his eye. He hadn't spoken to her recently, of course; barely at all since he'd changed. But he knew she had sent that letter to Ellen, and a thought crossed his mind with a sudden violence – had she been involved in that day's attack? No, that had been opportunistic, not planned. Still, his eyes narrowed.

Draco turned away from her, staring back at the fire, but listening for Blaise's footsteps. Hopefully she'd be going straight to her dormitory, or settle silently in one corner, or preferably leave.

He heard her footsteps and almost swore; they were heading straight for him. She paused behind his chair – Draco wished for a mirror positioned over the fireplace so he could see her – then stepped sideways; from the corner of his eye Draco saw her take the chair beside him.

Blaise's face was carefully blank, her eyes betraying curiosity as she fixed them on him and nothing more. She didn't speak; Draco knew she was waiting for him to make a move, and sighed.

'What do you want, Blaise?' he asked, not bothering to play at Slytherin guessing games.

Blaise frowned slightly at him. 'I want to know why you turned traitor to us,' she said plainly. 'And I want you to come back.'

Draco stared at her expression – almost honest – and felt unaccountably annoyed. She had absolutely no _idea_ about _anything_. 'No.' he snapped shortly. 'I'm not coming back, and it's none of your business why.' He got to his feet, turning away from her without so much as a goodbye.

'Wait,' she asked, softly, from behind him, and – knowing he would regret it – he paused.

'What?' he asked sharply, without turning round.

He heard the creak of wood as Blaise got out of her chair; heard her footsteps as she walked around him, coming to face him. He crossed his arms defensively. Blaise's expression surprised him; he expected her to appear powerful, in control, strong. Instead he could see the lines of doubt in her face, curving across her forehead, tugging at her eyes; and some other emotion he couldn't place.

She reached out a hand as if to touch him; he stiffened, and she reluctantly dropped it.

'Your father isn't pleased,' she said softly, her voice breaking the silence. Draco sneered.

'I no longer care what my father thinks,' he replied.

'Or what your House thinks, evidently,' Blaise replied, her lip curling in distaste. 'Fraternising with those Mudbloods… Really, Draco, I'm sure you could have found a better class of person. Some of the Ravenclaw purebloods, perhaps…'

That kindled the anger again. 'My _friends_ are a better class of person than you'll ever be,' he said roughly, the hot anger making everything around him suddenly sharper, more detailed. 'And I suggest that insulting them isn't the best way to win me round to your point of view.'

Blaise frowned. 'Draco…' she said reaching out and taking his hand – he jerked away, only the impression of cold skin left on his palm. She wasn't fazed. 'Draco, stop this. Why are you doing this? You know Mudbloods are inferior, you know what the Dark Lord is doing is for the best. Putting the world back to rights. Why-'

'By torturing people? By killing people?' Draco cut in. He wanted to hit her, to hurt her, but forced himself to ignore the urge. 'By beating up eleven-year-old girls who can't even defend themselves in the corridors?'

'You mean the Mudblood you're so fond of?' Blaise asked, eyes narrowing. 'It's not like she matters. She's only using you, Draco. She's-'

'Who else is there that can help her?' he asked. 'The whole of Slytherin House is against her, or won't go near her because they're scared of getting pulled into this too. And she's _eleven_. She's a first year, for goodness' sake. What a _noble cause_.'

Blaise was looking at him in confusion, as though he were speaking a completely different language. 'She's a Mudblood,' she said, as though this explained everything, and then, 'Draco!'

He ignored her; turning his back on her, he walked straight out of the common room, curling his hands into fists. If he'd stayed a moment longer he'd have lost the battle with anger and simply hit her, and he had a feeling that he wouldn't be happy about that in the morning.

Time to fly.

* * *

_However, it wasn't until 1975 that the term 'Death Eaters' came into common use. Prior to this, phrases such as 'followers of You-Know-Who' and 'supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' (both taken from the Daily Prophet archives) were-_

Hermione turned the page, the crackle of parchment sounding oddly loud in the silent common room. It was usually filled with chatter and laughter at this time of night, but now there was nothing but the occasional crack from the fire or the rain's constant hammering at the window, muffled slightly by the thick curtains that separated the common room from the wintry world outside.

Harry, Ron and Ginny had decided to celebrate the first day of the holidays by playing Quidditch all afternoon, only stopping when the darkening clouds had done what they'd been threatening to do and started to rain. Tired out by the games, they'd all decided to head off to bed early, leaving Hermione to settle by the fireplace with her book. There was only one other Gryffindor staying behind; a fifth-year who had crept off to stay with a friend in the Slytherin dormitories. Which wasn't technically allowed, but it was, after all, Christmas.

_- employed. The switch to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's own terminology marked a new era in the war; an era which would see his not inconsiderable menace to the wizarding world increase even further. Language is, after all, a considerable…_

Her attention was broken by an owl tapping at the window. She glanced upwards, half tempted to ignore the owl remain curled in her cosy space by the fire. But it was pouring down outside, and probably freezing cold, and really, it would be cruel not to let the poor thing inside.

Sighing, she set her book aside and pushed herself out of the chair – it was far too low to the ground, but it was huge and fat and comfortable, which made up for it. There was another quiet tapping; she followed the sound to the window. 'I'm coming, I'm coming, she muttered, drew back the curtain, and almost screamed in surprise.

It wasn't an owl tapping at the window. It was Draco.

She gaped at him for a moment. He was absolutely drenched, his hair plastered to his head and water running down his arms. He did have his wings out, tucked over and around him as a shield against the rain – he must have been flying, but in _this_ weather? The rain increased its efforts for a brief moment, as if to make a point, and Draco shivered. Tilting his head on one side, he raised an eyebrow and mouthed something that looked very much like '_Let me in!'_

Hermione glanced round nervously, half expecting to see one of the others appear with spectacular timing at the foot of one of the staircases. She caught herself. That was ridiculous: people didn't just appear because it was a bad time for them to do so. Harry, Ron and Ginny would be asleep by now, and meanwhile, poor Draco must be soaked.

She undid the latch quickly – the house elves kept them well oiled so they didn't stick – and swung the window open. Thankfully, it was wide enough to admit a human being plus wings. 'What on earth are you doing?' she asked, as Draco slipped off the windowsill and inside, curling the wings around him as he did so.

'Freezing to death, quite possibly,' he replied, brushing some hair out of his eyes and giving her an apologetic grin. Heavy with rainwater, The hair fell back into place. Droplets were tracing their way over his face; she couldn't see anything but his face and shoulders due to the wings, which were curled around him. The floor around his feet, Hermione noticed, was becoming damp already.

'_Sicco_' she muttered, waving her wand, and Draco instantly looked both a lot happier and a lot drier. 'What on earth were you doing out in that storm?'

'Flying?' he offered, then sighed. 'I was in a bad mood.'

'So you decided to go out in the pouring rain?' Hermione asked, feeling faintly amused. It crossed her mind that Draco shouldn't be here, really, but she ignored that fact. No one would mind – well, her friends might mind a little, but they knew she was friends with Draco. They wouldn't make a _fuss_. And besides, they were all asleep by now.

He shrugged, which looked rather odd when accompanied by wings. 'Flying cheers me up,' he said, and she noticed his teeth were chattering.

'How long were you out in that weather?' she asked suspiciously, and on impulse reached out and touched his shoulder. For the first time, the cliché of something feeling 'like ice' was the only accurate description Hermione could think of; she hadn't known someone could be that cold and still be alive. 'You're freezing!'

He ducked his head slightly. 'Sorry,' he said, 'I just… wasn't paying attention, I guess.'

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. 'Come on,' she said, tugging him over to the fireplace, 'you need warming up. Are those wings warm enough? I could summon a blanket from the dorms…'

Five minutes later, after further drying charms, warming charms and an anti-chilblain charm - 'Just in case,' said Hermione – Draco was sitting on the floor as close to the fire as he could get without burning himself or singeing his feathers. He had refused the blanket, and the wings did look warming, so Hermione hadn't insisted.

Now that she'd gotten over the shock of finding a soaked and freezing Draco Malfoy at the window, Hermione couldn't stop her attention flickering to those _wings_. They really were beautiful; they reminded her of all the angel pictures she'd ever seen when tailing her parents around art galleries as a child. She could almost picture him in one of those pieces, dressed in impossibly white robes and posing for Renaissance painters.

Fighting back the urge to smile – he'd ask her why and she didn't particularly feel like explaining that one to him – she glanced over to him. The silence that had fallen between them wasn't awkward; it was one of those companionable silences where nothing need be said, and sitting together in silence with their own thoughts and the sound of the rain outside was as good as talking.

Still, Hermione found that she wanted to talk to Draco, simply for the sake of speaking with him. And if she were really honest, she was fascinated by his wings.

'What's it like?' she asked. 'Flying, I mean?'

The expression on his face said it all. 'It's amazing,' he said, his tone almost reverent. His cheeks were still flushed – from the cold outside, or the fire's heat, or from flying – and Hermione could have sworn his eyes were a brighter grey than usual. 'It's… It's hard to explain. Have you been on a broomstick much?'

Hermione shook her head. 'Not really, apart from the flying class in first year. Why, is it like that?'

Draco frowned, opened his mouth as if to speak and closed it again. 'Not really,' he said, 'but if you think of what that's like, being on a broomstick… It's different. Because with the broomstick it's not really you doing the flying, it's the stick,' he said, frowning as he spoke, as though he was trying to understand it, as though he was explaining things as much to himself as he was to her. He probably was.

'And you can do anything you want on a broomstick – feints and dives and swoops and things like that – but you aren't really _free_. Because you're always bound to the broomstick; it's always there. But with flying… it's just me and the sky. And it's different, somehow. More freedom.' His face fell. 'I'm not making any sense at all, am I?'

'You're making a bit,' she assured him, smiling. 'Enough, at least.'

'It's hard to describe things I don't understand myself,' he said, and then almost absent-mindedly flexed one of his wings. Hermione's eyes followed it, the sweep of white feathers, rustling slightly as they moved, brushing against the floor and revealing, oddly pale and almost vulnerable, the side of Draco's chest.

He noticed her watching as the wing settled back into place. 'What is it?' he asked.

'Just… the wings,' Hermione said, shaking her head. 'They're fascinating.'

'They're only wings,' Draco said, frowning at them, and she was treated to another wide sweep of feathers as he raised one of them for his inspection. He frowned. 'And getting a bit messy, too.'

'_Only_ wings,' Hermione said, shaking her head. 'I know people who'd kill to have wings. Or even to see someone who has them.'

'They come at a price,' Draco said, a darker tone in his voice. He ran a hand carefully over the feathered wing before settling it back into place. 'And you know… Hermione?'

'What? Oh,' she said, blushing slightly as she realised she'd been staring at those white feathers. They looked impossibly soft, somehow pure. 'Sorry.'

He looked rather amused. 'Honestly, Hermione, if you're going to sit here and stare at my wings all night… 'A thoughtful look passed over his face. 'I'm certain mother has information on the half-Fallen wings somewhere in her library. You could owl and ask for information.'

'I might do,' Hermione said thoughtfully. 'The anatomy of them would probably be quite interesting. Did you say they're magical too?'

'Partly magical,' Draco replied, frowning. 'Mother would know. There are extra muscles to move them, but they aren't apparently strong enough to fly with on their own. So it's generally supposed that there's a bit of magic in the wing design somewhere.'

'Extra muscles?' Hermione asked. 'Where?'

In response, he opened his wings, twisting sideways so they didn't crash into the fire and causing Hermione to have to dodge out of the way of one. And there _were_ odd muscles; Hermione could see them move, twisting and rippling below the skin in a strange, otherworldly way.

'They're only there when the wings are,' Draco explained, beating his wings gently so Hermione could get the full effect of the muscles working. She realised that she was unconsciously moving closer, and sat back, amazed.

'That's… that looks really peculiar, you know,' she said, finding herself almost at a loss for words.

Draco glanced down at himself, frowning. 'It is? I suppose it must be… I'm too used to it, I guess.' He shrugged, treating Hermione to the sight of the wings shifting with his pale shoulders. It took her a moment to realise he was staring at her appraisingly.

'Why are you so interested?' he asked curiously. 'They're only wings. You see them every day on owls.'

'But not on people,' she pointed out. 'It's different on people. And besides, you're a totally new type of creature,' she added with a wry smile. 'My impulse is to study.'

'So I'm a creature now?' he asked, but his light smile indicated that he wasn't really offended.

'You know what I mean,' she said, eyeing the soft white mass of the wing closest to her. 'What else is unusual about them?'

Draco paused for a moment before answering. 'Touch one,' he said at last. She blinked at him, trying to gauge his intent, but his expression remained enigmatic. 'Go on.'

She found herself inexplicably nervous of doing so, despite the fact that stroking his soft feathers was a very appealing idea. Still, it felt almost… wrong to touch them, as though it were something private, which she shouldn't intrude on. Except of course he'd invited her to touch them, so that was silly. Hermione had never thought of emotions as irrational before – they had always imply been there – until association with Draco had made her see that they very often were.

Hesitantly, almost timidly, she put out her fingertips and carefully stroked one feather. The first touch sent a wave of something warm and soothing through her, but it was a few seconds before she realised it was more than ceasing to be nervous. She stared at Draco in surprise.

'It's one of the odder properties,' he explained. 'You remember there were two species fighting? Mine – the Fallens, that is, whose impulse was to do evil, and their cousin race whose instinct was for good.' Hermione nodded. 'Well, we think that my race split off from theirs. And the wings are a leftover, as it were, from their species. Hence them causing… I think it's contentment?'

'It feels like contentment. In an odd way,' Hermione said. It was a wonderful feeling, warm and safe, rather like a muted version of the feeling just before falling to sleep when all the world is forgotten, and there's nothing but warm blankets and soft pillows. She shifted her fingers on the feathers, which were as soft as they looked, and she smiled.

Draco looked amused. 'They're apparently good against Dementors,' he said. 'Because the contentment balances out the negative effects of their presence. You still remember the bad memories, you just don't feel the pain of them.'

'Useful,' Hermione noted, tilting her head on one side. 'I wonder if you could use them in a potion.'

'I don't think anyone's ever tried,' he replied. The rain, still battering at the windows, chose that moment for a sudden redoubling of its efforts, accompanied by an ominous roll of thunder. Hermione glanced at the windows and frowned.

'What on earth were you doing outside in this weather anyway?' she asked. 'It sounds awful out there.'

'It is,' he confirmed. 'As to why… I was in a bad mood, like I said. And flying helps it feel better.' He sighed, leaning back slightly and staring absently at the fire. 'I was furious. I felt like I was going to punch someone if I didn't control myself better.'

'You were that angry?' Hermione asked, concerned. Draco must have picked up on the worry in her voice, because he immediately looked worried as well.

'Is that not normal?' he asked. 'Or, well, I know it's not normal in terms of you don't feel that angry often, but-'

She cut in, 'No, no, it's not that. Everyone gets angry, and it was good of you _not_ to punch someone.' He relaxed a little at that. 'I was just… what made you so angry?'

He sighed a little before speaking. 'Keep your hand on the feathers,' he advised her, 'you aren't going to like it…'

* * *

**A/N: **'Sicco' means 'I dry'.

I have a good (or at least important) question for you this chapter! At school we have Houses, very much like the Harry Potter Houses except without the Sorting Hat. And of course, there is a House Cup. Now, one of the competitions which contributes towards said Cup is the House Play competition, where the Lower Sixth (my year!) write and direct a short play to be performed by the eleven-year-olds of their House. And the time for writing said play is fast approaching… Now, what I wish to ask is simple: does anyone have any ideas for a topic which is suitable for eleven year olds, has a flexible number of parts depending on how many people we get (at least 10!), has comic potential and isn't utterly cliché? Any ideas? Suggest them!

Review!


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